When I lie on my right side I can only hear the refrigerator,
its gentle hum a dial tone of white noise.
Nestled in that amethyst-colored space
between awake and dark I bivouac.
Behind closed eyes I sort beach glass into mason jars
the tumbled stones providing order,
the colors providing peace.
You are offended by my closed eyes
and perceived unwillingness to be the audience for
your oratory so you pass by.
When I lie on my left side I can hear the clock ticking.
I can hear your step and pause for breath.
I ponder the stories locked deep within and shyly
wait to be invited to the dance,
but you do not hear the music.
My great and glowing sadness is not visible enough
to reach you, and in order to hear you I have turned away.
You are offended by my back to the door
so once again you pass by.
You tinker, and touch my things.
You cut the tops off flowers, sometimes
I think you will cut my hair.
I must be ever vigilant but eventually I sleep.
You are nowhere to be found.
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