Poems.

You.

Everything is beginning to look like you.

I spend passing moments carving your features in the grains of my ceiling
and into trees in the dark.

They all have your eyes.

So much so that I can't even recognize
rainy afternoons,
or warm blankets in December anymore,
because I'm struggling to remember
when those things had a distinct identity
and didn't just feel like your chest,
falling and rising,
synchronizing,
like a clock tick or a time bomb.

Nights are the worst,
because they remind me how
differently the earth shifts
when you're near,
and how shallow my breaths seem when you're not.

I thought there would be a time when it's easier to sleep than when I'm next to you.

It turns out,
clenching eyes,
clutching sheets,
dreaming up the scent of morning breath,
works not nearly as well,
but as well as I've got right now.

I miss you basically.