He's asleep the next morning,
I'm stuck in the kind of limbo
I still pretend coffee will lift. I go to
the other room and open The Cinnamon
Peeler again. The coffee will go cold,
but fine. I know when I'm only pretending.
And when I come out for a second cup,
he’s still there on the couch—
last night, he nodded off waiting for me
to finish studying—but now slumped
in a different position.
He does not understand poetry.
I feel a moment
of guilt as I pass my hand
over his forehead,
the warmth of his skin, looking
for dark spots, and cracks
in the past, present, future
that a moment will forget
and another will remember.