My book lies on her bed
Where my body should be
Smooth surface
Of blankets and sheets
As unruffled as an unruffled sea
With me Castaway
Turning my gaze away
Scared to death
This is an illusion
Or a pathetic wanderer
With parched lips
In an endless desert
Aching for a sip
Wishing too hard for it,
Book face down
With my face staring back,
My body already there,
But not hers
The two of us,
In this string of room
Doors and windows,
Stark sunlight
Instead of candle light,
Thoughts of romance
Lost
In this invitation to breakfast
.
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