You and I have catching up to do,
so I will be getting sick,
and losing sleep over you.
I will be waking up at five a.m.
to pretend I’m only dreaming
eyes glassy and wide, lids peeled apart
like the two halves of a Venus Fly Trap
waiting to catch the thin limb of light
slowly reaching through my window,
carefully stretching across a pale cream wall
to stain the space above an old, dark instrument
a fainter shade of pale
towards an old, round mirror
which eerily reflects a parallel universe
of complete stillness in the corner,
of how life once looked just a few hours ago.
And I see the reflection seems the same,
though the subject’s forever changed.
You and I have thoughts to gather
from one another’s heads
so I will be folding back on myself,
and furling back into bed
in the first breath I hold
once you’ve drawn closed my door
to find the last square centimetre of pillow,
that held your scent as the projector room of my mind
replays every square kilometre of conversation,
pinned with each laugh,
or pause of punctuation
from the evening, or morning before.
My heart will be racing,
as the carpet wears worn
until the faint chime of the latch
drowns out every car, tram,
and truck on Nicholson Street,
for I’ve never known the scrape
of the ground beneath the paint-chipped iron gate
to sound quite so sweet as it does,
when I’m expecting you.