Thanksgiving

We lie
on our sides
facing the same dirty window.
Talking
at each other
words hanging between us like frozen breaths in February air
fingers grazing cold skin
yet neither one of us will move
under the blanket or out of the house.
So there we lie
wasting precious moment
talking and looking out the dirt window at nothing

Lines from poems written about others like you
float through my head.
I pause over each one, weighting its connotations and expressions
deciding merit based on current relevance.
"Poetry should transcend and transform"
filtered through my head
as you stretched your leg around my waist.
My focus shifted to the heavy reality of restricted breathing
and physical closeness.
Absently I run my fingers in circles on your calf.

We spent a weekend of perfection
holed up together in a small apartment.
When we left the chock of cold
numbed me to the fact that we were turning our backs
on any kind of future.

Vague attempts at recreation of that weekend have failed
and I think we both want something different.
Cut off from you by choice
part of me kept thinking that you would succumb
that you would miss me and care
but I think I was wrong.