May 27, 2007

You turn over and he’s still,
Sleeping. Holding onto his pillow,
He never tries to hold onto
You once he’s asleep, and
You think to yourself, “why
Even bother?”
But bother with what?
Surely everyone bothers
With something—some things
Are just worth it, and
You wonder if this thing
You have between is
Worth it, because sometimes,
You just don’t know.
And then he stirs, stretches, turns
His face in your direction, and
His skin is so smooth and soft
With slumber, his brow unfurrowed
In repose and you think, “this is
Why its worth it,” because only
He could stir you so in so many ways
Just by breathing, unaware.
Then you realize. He’s so unaware,
So completely unaware, and
That’s why you think he
Doesn’t care, because he doesn’t
Try to show you, it seems, that
He’s ever there, that he wants
To be, needs to be, loves to be.
He doesn’t really know what
It is to bother with something,
Something worthwhile, something
Worth something, because there
Always seems to be something
Else more appealing to not
Bother with.
So you learn what it is to be
In the background, like you always
Seem to be, a necessary backdrop
That no one needs to see or
Know, that he doesn’t seem to
Want to show to anyone or anything,
Unless its just to point you out
And say, “this is my background,
This is mine.” And you think,
“I’m forgetting how to sing.”
The empty cans and bottles sit upon
The windowsill, the silent witnesses
To countless pains, countless attempts
At ecstasy, and unnamed bitter recklessness.