It's Odd

[mostnights]

It’s odd for one like I to feel such slight,
Such jealousy against that precious hand
(That now attempts to wipe away sleep’s sand
In vain, to savor her last waking sights
5 But makes soft, gaping shadows in the lights
That drown her umber eyes to a dreamland
Held captive by a lamp on a nightstand);
But I’m the one who kisses her goodnight…

It’s odd to find myself alone in here,
10 Unclothed and wrapped in a frigid blanket,
Shrouded in the umbra of my reason.
My reason, sleeping soundly to my ear,
Had asked me why I became a poet.
I said, “Because without you, I’m broken.”