I closed the door on you.
This is not a metaphor. You were snoring. I couldn’t abide.
I need a quiet house. That’s not your fault.
You disorder me. You are a distraction,
a leaking faucet: dripping, dripping.
(I do not need your reminder)
of all I’ve left undone.
Maintenance foregone. Weatherstripping. Yard work.
The front porch needs painting.
Winter will be here before we know it.
2 thoughts on “Love Sleeps”
This unsettles the energy in my chest cavity in a lovely and welcome way. And it makes me want to write poetry again.
Write it write it write it. xox.