I picture the place,
high windows in a row
over beds occupied
by wrinkled tosses,
outside, the air
beginning to bloom.
What can I do?
Far away and carefree
from the power that be.
In my heart of heart,
I confess that my love
jumps, not by want,
but an intangible push,
my back against the void,
under a blue moon,
up and away.
All that I feel is guilt,
so tired of it fluttering by
Will I be occupying
the same white bed?
Will I lose, one nap at a time,
all her memory?