"The Truth, as of February"

Weather.com says
it feels like 5 degrees
but I still wanna crawl out of bed
climb down the fire escape
and turn blue
in the midnight,
wander the streets
and think about you
and how I need to see you
because we need to get this closed.

I wouldn’t call this a wound.

You never hurt me,
at least not in the way of breaking skin.
And brain and heart are still here anyway –
good, okay, intact.

I wouldn’t call this a book or a chapter.

We’ve written to each other
and the words have failed
(engines with good intentions)
in pitch and ring and fruition.
We’re not a hard cover anyway;
the bold type.

I wouldn’t call this a gap.

Because I need the space.
It’s this arm’s length or more
that keeps me reaching for you.

It’s room to wiggle my fingers
– a wave that I change my mind about:
hello or goodbye.

I try to call this as I see it.

But it’s all bleach
pure and pungent
and I don’t want to open my eyes
against it.

Whatever this is,
Whatever we call it,
We’ve got to close it, L--.

My thoughts on the subject have been Morse Code
for too long,
Short short short, long long long, short short short.

I don’t want to wish for cold and you in the same thought.

I don’t want to wish for you.

I want the stars for other things.

I want the night for sleeping.

I want pencil for permanent,
but I want that carmine-pink chrysanthemum-yellow merrigold-orange summer twilight
to find dark and finally be done.

I want March to come (in like a lion, out like a lamb)
I want to see you then.

I want to get this closed.

I want to open my eyes.