One Cold Night in October

I have a proposition: let’s pretend
Those three months were it

And ignore all the shit: we could
Lie

Down, again, like we were in control.
Or lie. Or act as if

We weren’t only filling each other
With what was missing, as if

Anything was ever decided
By us—because that was

Fun, wasn’t it: just being filled.
I mean nothing vulgar or funny by that. But at least

Back then
We used to laugh.

I think they were lies, too, sadly.
Like wedding dresses. Or cocoons.

Or sleeping bags. If only we knew. Though
If I’d have known? I’d have only

Filled you harder I reckon fuck it—tried
To get to the missing quicker, filling

Us both to the brim
Leaving no room for future lies

Or proposals. Although
I do lie still, as I’m glad

It was left how it was: I have now
Eaten into myself, and the lies

Were in there all along. Some of your leaves
Too, were there. Are you waking up

Now too? Relinquishing
Control? Eating into ourselves

Can be a breaking
Down

Or a blossoming, you know? Do you?
Are you…
        

Morning! Sorry—a proposition? No!
I mean… no I didn’t say

Anything, as I know you don’t like
Being woken up: I remember some things!
        

And yes—I agree: us lying here
Is strange!

Almost like those early days.

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