on a stained bed

on a stained bed for hours on end
occasionally gliding in our bathrobes into the kitchen the bath
and you'd come emerging through the doorway
across my half-opened eye silky
with the mugs in your hands carelessly made
to last for the day.

in the evening you have to go
and id inevitably mourn, in rapid disguise,
and make several calls abroad
so you would stay for a few more hours.

many years from now, you'd flip through the folds of your brain
and see me standing there as i do
hand over mouth
so we'd know it was real.