I forget to be warm when the Sun
sets early into the bay

of a sheeted window.
Chill bent and blaming

vertigo, or whatever causes
the eyes to avert downward,

causing me to miss you.

I'd call it apathy,
but it hurts to much...

I'd call it boredom,
if I could tell time...

I'd call it envy,
if my contentious boasts of

words spelt vitae.

Curious minds grow intrusive
spines, and I probe what

could have been. But recall
strained voids forgotten on

purpose, when summer
sins proved worthy and

I drowned in your games.