Afterwards the sun drowns me in filtered orange
she’s padding almost soundless
from my darkened bathroom
I’m pretending to be asleep.
She stands between me and daylight draped
in one of my t-shirts and says
“is this anything more than a poem
you’ve already re-written a dozen times?”
I snort, half-sleep—most lie; turn
so she only sees the plane of my back
and let my breath becomes a sigh
“what is it again that I’m suppose to write?”
