Caustic Heartless in The eye of every storm

i woke up three times last night. it was cold and i
hate how when you’re cold in the middle of the night,
you can never really get out of bed to get a blanket,
or turn up the heat; the coldness and the darkness and
your own angry calling dreams intimidating.

i lay in the dark and missed you. i thought about
whether you were sleeping, and if your body might be
curled up- you, cold in your sleep-, or maybe arms and
smooth legs flung everywhere- reaching for something.

Maybe you were awake, staring at your ceiling.
I don’t think you were thinking about me. I don’t
think you’ve dreamed about me in a long time.
i think you’d be proud of me. you were always the one to
hold every tidal wave back. you never let things show:

a perfect exterior: calm, cool, collected;
a million other adjectives that may or may not begin
with C, but that all mean some degree of numb.

it was easier to sleep, thinking about you not
thinking about me. it’s easier to live when you’re not
around. if you had cared, i might have stayed up:
written you a letter, maybe even have walked outside

stared at the phone and the sun, ever rising,
tempted to reach out and touch you someway.
i wonder if i had called
what dreams would i have interrupted?

Not that it matters.
My dreams were always the beautiful ones.

Last updated April 17, 2016