Until the Pen Runs Dry

She walks into the bathroom and turns on the water for the bathtub. She always has an issue with getting the temperature just right for a bath, but never a shower, so you, lying on your side on the bed listening to the glass door of the tub slide, know that she will not be as happy with the temperature of the water as she would like when she finally sinks into it. "Bubble bath?" you call into the bathroom. The door is slightly ajar, and the light is sloping into the dark bedroom. "Bubble bath!" she calls back. Her voice sounds muffled, and you think she may be taking off her shirt in this moment.  You have always been amused by the way her hair streams free from her t-shirt hole whenever she takes her t-shirt off. Naturally, her dresses, which simply drop from her curves and onto the floor, do not have this effect, but you cannot complain about dresses coming off, like a cover coming off and revealing a gift from a game show. And you know she is the best...

If dreams, As they say, Are meaningless, Why do I Feel so much weight When I see your face In my sleep? When your arms, Torso, Legs, And smile Stretch across My Dreams? I do not like how You linger into The day following my illusions— Moving from my brain To my heart, Squeezing me With each beat. What are dreams if not fragments of what was? You are not Always there— No. But when you are, You are all that is there. I do not like knowing That the rest of my life Will be plagued by thoughts Of you.