Here I am. 2 a.m.
The bathroom--which way is it?
What day is it?
Oh, now I remember!
Thursday morning the twenty-fourth of December,
The crisp, cool wind through my window flowing,
Growing stronger each minute,
Threatening to pick me up and plop me right down in it--
In that pit I had fallen into, when you,
Three days ago, said what I'd always known was true.
And what was I to do
But drown myself in fantasy?
Dreaming blindly of you and of me . . .
And of us . . .

I imagine lying by your side,
Willing and ready to confide
In you the inner workings of my heart,
My secrets, deep and dark,
Pouring, onto the floor at your feet, my self and my soul,
Wanting you to behold
My every thought. As I unfold
To you, so may you unfold to me;
And now I see
Just why I weep,
Why I find sleep
So long coming.
It's because my heart, in its drumming,
Refuses to stop beating
Out the rhythms of wanting, the rhythms of needing.
And here I'm left bleeding,
My wounds open to the world,
My white flag unfurled
And waving to tht enemy that's inflicted this pain.
(All my wanting, in vain.)
And my soul, once inflamed
Is now lost,
Devoured in the frost
That comes through my window this morn' of December
At the hour I remember
That it's Thursday, 2 A.M.,
And you are not here.

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