When morning wakes, my dreams are moments marked in the past,
replayed like a black-and-white film, distorted panel after panel.
I lift my head, studying the room that is dark because time wakes
slowly too; it is early, and the sky hesitates without asking. I dig
my fingers in the bedspread, feeling you are already gone, downstairs
eating breakfast. The sound of your spoon against a bowl, either
white or blue, fills my ears. My voice calls down to you, and I hear
you smiling when you say, “You’re finally awake.” Your footsteps
are heavy, and I see through the dimness that you have your battle
boots on. You are always a vision of blue when you come to wake me,
dressed in your camouflage suit that matches the color of stuffy heat.
You sit next to me on the bed and wrap your arms around my tiny frame,
whispering, “I’m sorry,” repeating it. Sometimes your lips stay with me
as if you’re drinking an ocean. I notice these things but I turn my head
away. And yet, you hesitate, like the sky. When I finally give in, you grab
my hand and pull me to the window. I see through the white blades a child
running across the neighbor’s lawn, and in a moment, I am scared you
have left. You are still behind me, placing your hands around my waist,
and say, “One day.”
A poem written at work. I have a hard time concentrating sometimes.