Or is it just because I’ve been
Breathing life into Galatea after the
Sun bows out and gives me my stage—here, I am
Loved the way I like:
I’m confident my lover likes me so
I don’t worry about the way my hair must seem:
Bird’s-nest soup, the memory of
A child again. I promise I’m not too far
Grown up yet.
We just exist
In negative space,
Absorbing the quiet.
Then, sun takes its turn and
Clocks in to run
His shift. We get along
Except in the moments before my
Eyelids pry open, and I wake
To a bed without my lover: it is all
Melted butter, running
Down the counter but let me
Watch it for a moment longer
Before swiping the remnants up,
Leaving no trace again.