STOP the wedding march.
Reserve it for the sober—
For those whose hope is lost.
Those somber organ tones
Are better played
At an end
Not a beginning.
I woke up this morning
near you,
but not with you;
it happened
yesterday, too.
Your head lies on
the pillow next to mine,
but you aren’t
really there.
I am alone.
Our pillows touch
even when we
do not—
while we wait for love
to return—
to lay
its rumpled head
back down
to sleep
between us.
I.
Two far-flung stars are
separated
by a yawning abyss of white satin,
anchored only by the small
brown body sleeping
between them.
II.
One white hand floats upward
and sideways so slowly
like a gravity-freed chunk
of a time-before-time meteorite—
all the components of blood, skin, bone, heart
are solidified, compacted, hardened,
free-floating and edging sideways
painstakingly
inching toward the tiny brown hand
splayed on the sheet
like a miniature nebula.
III.
Another hand
from the far reach of space,
the other side of the gulf,
across the vast emptiness
between the stars once bright
now dying,
reaching hesitantly,
but with purpose,
orbiting toward the magnetism,
of the warm baby breath
and the sweet concavity
at the bridge
of a tender nose.
IV.
Two lonely fingers
leaning in
to touch
the tender body,
its gravity the only
anchor
between these far-flung stars.
V.
Two fingers touch a tiny nose.
One hand briefly touches the other hand.
And for one millisecond
a spark
is there.
And it startles,
static to dynamic—
fear, love, hate—
then the distance is back.
The two hands, the two fingers, the two hearts
separate.
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