The sun set from your window
I had always loved the picture the sun made
when we sat on the worn, striped couch
in your living room, watching
as that orange orb rose or sank
below the tree-topped hills
that dipped into the distance past
your house before rising into mountains.
I had always loved the picture we made,
looking at the sun.
Remember when I thought
the sun set from your window? Remember
when you thought it set from mine?
It’s been a year since I watched twilight
come, from inside of your home.
It’s different tonight – the twilight. Though I suppose
the light between the two of us
is different, too.
But, tonight, you pull me up the stairs
because you say the view is better
there. I press my nose against the glass
and wish to slow the rays of color fading
into dusk, wish to lean back and rest
in your warm arms, wish to fall
back in your bed where I – once – belonged.
My apologies for repeatedly posting the same works, tweaked slightly (in case anyone is getting bored here). Sometimes I think it’s easier to write poetry if you divorce yourself from it; that is, if it’s fictitious. The first draft of this poem was written in the moment when I felt all of this but, as it got workshopped, it turns out that I hadn’t conveyed the situation very well, and I needed to show the time change and the shift and everything that had happened (that I thought I’d made clear, though clearly I didn’t). I hope it’s clearer this time.