Your shambling walk becomes a sacrament
I pray to every morning.
And when you wake, I see you there,
in my imagination,
pulling on your attitude, the one that keeps
my worrying at bay. Although it doesn’t fit you,
it’s what I want, and selfishly, I’m glad
you try it on, and mold it to your face, your hands
and show it to me, not your yellow skin
becoming more transparent every day.
It isn’t right that I should want
what isn’t mine, and isn’t yours to give.
But what more can I say, except
I want you here at any price, the way you used to be.
I watch you slowly disappearing
into clothes that swallow you.
I wonder what your heart will say
that morning when you turn away,
and give yourself to sleep. Is it
that I am keeping you from rest?
If that is so, I want you gone,
if that is where you’re going.
