This is me being impatient,
Flipping the end of a bookmark repeatedly and staring at the dimmed lamp.
This is you in the bed you made, turning over and over, pretending to like it
(You always were an actor).
You made me an actor too,
Except I’m not as good at it,
And I resent books that I cannot hold and finger and smell.
The night is unseasonably cold
We are both getting old.
I imagine you staring at the wall,
Ignoring her long body tangled in the sheets beside you.
We like to think our decisions are personal,
But the truth is that there is
Always an entire community who
Must live with the consequences of each one.
I take the sleeping pills and
Switch on the darkness.