I’m getting

used to letting

days slip past

in a long stream of unaccomplishments,

just pulling

the sheet, blanket and flowered spread

up to the unfluffed pillows

only by habit,

when,

before,

we’d even the edges and lengths of all the covers

so’s the pair of us

would share the same weight of comfort

when we snuggled into bed,

(at least at first)!

By morning, though,

there’d be the two of us,

rolled and tumbled

into a warm pile of pillows and rumpled blankets,

the aftermaths of our pleasures

and then. our uninterupted sleep.

Now, though,

the year gone past

unremembered,

and the last five months

spent wandering in the fog,

a vagabond without a map,

what difference?

Breathing,

still a necessary burden

and automatic, anyway.

Eating,

on the growing list of occasional,

once mastered but now forgotten,

doings in a long day.

Being,

just being,

requires meaning.

She was mine.