Funny,
the muses neglected to visit
while you slept with your head on my shoulder,
while my fingers wrote wordless sonnets in your hair,

while we unfolded the rich and mysterious
discovery of each other
like a heavily embroidered cloth
but tonight while the lamp burns,

while regret presses his heavy head against me,
while you sleep in solitude
in a room on the other side of town,
a hesitant cadence
a string of words
begins to stitch the unravelled cloth,
attempting to complete
what we could not.