There was nothing beautiful in your kiss,
nothing sacred.

I couldn't sleep,
wandered to the shower,
washed it away
(wondered still if you might join me).

You made everything somehow less,
especially my expectations.
I brushed my hair,
dressed carefully,
returned to bed.
Lying there, arms askew, fast asleep;
I hated you in that moment.

The next morning
you asked me what was wrong.
I said, "Nothing.  There's nothing wrong."
I don't know if you believed me.
What else could I have said?
What would have made it right?

"It's your arms that will not haunt me,
 your face that refuses my dreams.
 It's your brittle kiss,
 your unremarkable eyes.
 It's the way I use you,
 the way you don't even seem to care."

"It's nothing.
 It's just me.
 Just forget it."

But only a few hours ago
I hated you,
and only a few hours from now
I will kiss you again,
drowning in the insubstantial.