When she hugged you the last time, the wind whispered, traitor.
You feed my sleep often with dreams of yesterday equaling tomorrow,
when I wake up I mean,
with us together again for the long haul.
Those dreams comfort me for the moment,
but always I have this odd feeling near the end,
and I always know the end is coming,
that something’s happening that won’t be good,
that you’ll be gone when I wake up,
and sure enough,
I wake up cold and shivering, lying on this grassy dew covered mound.
There’s no sound but the flapping of some early bird’s wing;
she’ll catch her worm.
And there’s this high cawing, the call, lonesome, of a crow looking.
The rest is only a shivering dead silence.
My hands, ice cold, look bloodless.
I’ve been sleeping on my arm; it’s numb to the point of falling off.
I sit up and look for you, shake it out, but really, I know you’re gone,
leaving me alone again, naturally.
I should get a move on too; you won’t be back.
Still I sit tight for a while, a fool hanging onto some hopeless ideal,
until I wake up.
Lanning Lee 