Failure to recall the name of some foreign film.
A shirt that might be dangling from a hook.
Suspected disturbance from otherworldly realm.
The page on which you got lost in your current book.
Your itchy beard and the effort it took.
And all of that other stuff, somewhat farther out:
the portal through which we wandered one afternoon…
We walked about, and then we talked about,
and I sang for your love an unrequited tune
that swelled and emboldened my heart, perhaps your own,
then quickly dissolved upon my waking.
Disenchantment over what sleep doles out on loan.
You have to leave it there. It’s not for the taking.
Percentages. How much of love is strife?
The thought that sleep takes up a full third of one’s life.
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