I am thinking about you

It was Literature class, reclined

in the stretchy black chair,

thinking about time.

Thinking

about the way you appeared

in my dream again.

That slow sting.

That burning bitterness.

The crescendo, the falling, all of it.

The feeling of you.

You, the feeling. Both you and

feeling, leaving.

Someone who never came

can never leave,

which is to say that in many ways

you will never leave me.

But I am still sick of you, your absence.

I am sick of dreaming

of your lips, parting

to say nothing but to breathe.

Oh, to take in this world

and exhale. To do it all

without thinking.