04-08-2016, 01:47 AM
How We Have Changed
I watch you while you sleep,
nestled into the depression
of the bed, that my body left,
a shared warmth I no longer feel.
Has this emptiness always been
a part of me? The moon leaches
the light from my skin like smoke
rising from a fire, and I settle
into the darkness of our small room.
The pale light rests on you,
holds you motionless,
like a photograph, a captured moment.
The slats of the blinds rattle
in the night breeze, and their shadows
cover you in bars. I feel the hair
on my arms bristle at the captivity.
I watch you while you sleep,
nestled into the depression
of the bed, that my body left,
a shared warmth I no longer feel.
Has this emptiness always been
a part of me? The moon leaches
the light from my skin like smoke
rising from a fire, and I settle
into the darkness of our small room.
The pale light rests on you,
holds you motionless,
like a photograph, a captured moment.
The slats of the blinds rattle
in the night breeze, and their shadows
cover you in bars. I feel the hair
on my arms bristle at the captivity.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson