(wake up) not asleep, but reading,
(write) she sits the edge of my bed,
tilts her head, waits. silence. (think it
to know). Sylvia, i am tired.
(the write will you), but how,
(ask the sky). and she stays,
to feel, asking cry (I know). pulls
what i push down (inside rain),
closing windows on day (tumble words),
and in sleep of dark, my name, cloud
whisper, pen gripped unwritten (Sylvia),
fly, write us both home (again).
Always somehow ripped
at the corners, wrinkled
down the middle, and looking
like day old coffee
stains have more weight
than the words on the page.
Printed again, it still turns
out the same, so I leave
it there, on the corner
of the desk to soak
in early morning rays and
to whisper to me, though
I turn away and sip my coffee,
tired of its dusty words.
I am you, it taunts, with its stains
and wrinkles, rips and fades.
And knowing the words on it have never
lifted it past the desk, no one
has said yes, yes, but only no,
its torn corners wait, and I rest
my coffee mug upon it, leaving
an uneasy circle across my words.
Talking to the Clouds 