The Sun Set From Your Window (final?)

I used to love the picture the sun made
when we sat on the worn, striped couch
in your living room, watching
as that orange orb sank below the tree-topped hills
that dipped into the distance past
your house before rising into mountains.

I used to love the picture we made,
looking at the sun.

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. The sunset makes the mountains
look as if they’re bleeding. I am torn: I want
to press my nose against the pane of glass between us
and the sun, I want to lean back
into your warm arms behind me.

For reasons I can’t understand,
I do not move.

Your bedroom darkens as we stand there, choosing
not to close the gaps. I wish to slow
the rays of color fading into dark,
wish to halt the coming out of stars,
wish for the courage to break
this beautiful and distant picture, to fall

back in your bed where
I – once – belonged.

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