I already miss the feeling of your calloused fingers
and the hollow of collarbones.
Sundays and us, considering Vonnegut in monotone,
or the sensuality of earlobes.
Alternating episodes of depression and drowsiness
marked by half-empty coffee cups.
All limbs and guitar strings, Grey Reverend hauntings
and the softness of every tiny paw.
I told you that I would try and not fall asleep again
but I couldn't even do that.
I could only keep my eyes open just long enough
to watch as you shut the door.