Talking to you now feels like
lying in a new bed.
All sounds are brand new.
It is not that your words aren't cool breezes when you talk about everything except us,
but I am used to the chatter of the ceiling fan we spent our summers under.
And your smiles do sound of water-drops -
They negotiate a crooked path down the broken shelves of my ribcage,
but I miss the morning drizzle on my face
that woke me into ruddy activity;
Your smiles were rain-clouds then.
Your eyes still are blankets I hide under,
but they are in too many folds to afford me dreams.
I do not know how I managed to weave you into so many knots;
Your gaze used to rub all over me,
And I used to thaw into the sunshine.
I hold your eyelids to my chest now
and close my eyes,
but it's cold.
I cannot sleep like this.