What-Ever

Sleep in keeping with 

a paragraph. A bed of what-ever

(You tip three fingers

up then sideways to form

each front letter.) We 

laugh. 

I wish it were never 

miserable. It hurts to be apart 

rather than a part. You gesture 

to me threads that might be

art. I miss your

curled signature.

I sleep sideways. I frame 

the start of another

mood. All night restraint

keeps you away. In a way

I understand but do not

embrace. The race

to the finish is one I do

not cotton to. The sheets,

in the west

bedroom. The one with 

the lower bed from which

to watch old things.

What-ever may mean

what is not 

invented yet. And yet

I cobble together threads

of feeling, upstarts

that might become maybe new.