disoriented,
the sun peels back,
with holy light,
a black silk eye mask
i don’t travel with,
but i don’t remember that yet.

a snow blower hums—
your brother, i think,
but i’m not awake.
there’s a moment
where you’re there
because you’re always there,
but i don’t remember,
if only in spirit.

there’s a distance
always looming—
sometimes gentle,
sometimes violent,
and it appears
in bed again.

last night’s sleeping pills
helped me forget
long enough
to nod off—
but now i’m awake.
i’m home.
not at the hotel,
nor your snowy town,
and your brother isn’t snow blowing.

and i hadn’t even remembered
to be sad again,
when i looked down,
and all the violent distance—
you erased it,
last night
at 1:11 a.m.,
because you missed me,
because you cared.

and even though
you gave me back
the photograph,
the one you loved,
with some smeared goodbye
written on back,
you chose to fall asleep
under the blanket
i draped over you,
let yourself
be warm again—
despite all the worry
it may have been
just a dream.

-

I still need you.