this attempt to peel the me off of the we-
it doesn’t work. rather,
a quiet settling in of self
occurs at the onset of sleep.

how your face changes when you turn to me.
did you know, i’ve been unplugged for weeks?
lost in my own mind, but then again,
at least it is my own.

im sick of this fucking sweater.
i want to burn it off my skin,
in fire, or better yet,—

a breath, a steadying.
how i do dearly love the life of night.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
(Robert Frost)

4 pulses:

a dream: so real i awoke shaking;
where did i go?
again, i catch my reflection in your face.

a face: more familiar than my own;
love making the anger ebb,
lately, my mind afire with memory.

a memory: that tesmpestuous panic;
a gut-sick feeling,
yes, but this is what we live for.

a life: as changing as the sky;
now pregnant and swollen with storms,
and then, the pouring burst.