I slept through New Year’s


I slept through New Year’s.
Five hours ahead, you called
Me at seven PM.
I’d been getting ready for dinner
With my family when your voice
Rang out from the future. You’d turned
The page on the calendar and found
That in January you could
Still love me. Selfish,
Something snatched at me.
Some urge to leave you
Drunk and alone on New Years.
I hadn’t heard from you
All day and so grown worried
As a child, last to be picked up
From school, wondering if
Perhaps they’d been forgotten
For good. But then, there you were,
Missing me. Somehow thinking you could quell
Each worry you’d anticipated I had
(and you must have anticipated
many, for I am never at ease with happiness
and you have never made
happiness easy), you were agile,
Smoothing over the year gone by,
Stifling every ill-fated echo
Of your misdeeds in the thick
Sheet you promised to lay over me. The one
You’d call love.
The party had abated and the quiet
Beckoned you to bed. I’d satiated
Your need for companionship
On the phone: told you I hoped
You’d fall asleep quickly,
Wanting you to be rested for your foray
Into the new world. I felt no need
To maintain my vigil, momentarily having had
Every need met in knowing
You had remembered me
Even amidst the passing of time.

Image Credit: Édouard Vuillard via wikimedia commons

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