Languor

Languor is

a Monday morning

when he leaves for work

and you keep your eyes closed,

pull a blanket over your head

and hear his car start outside of

the bedroom window.

It is a warm sun in January

when you open up the curtains

and let the light leak on your skin,

sit cross legged like a sheepish child

and ask him if he’s ever been in

love.

It is

waiting for him like a dog

because your bark is bigger

than your bite

and your bruised legs are wearing thin

and you think about giving in

but say “never mind”

when he asks you why.

It is

your sleepy disposition in the daytime

and restlessness at night

when you [involuntarily] relapse

into believing you are

alone.

Languor is

seeing him through half open eyes

and, my god, have you ever slept

beside an angel at midnight?

It is a

tarot card book reading

and kissing with your tongue,

slow dancing in the kitchen,

and being carried up the stairs.

Languor is

a Sunday night

discussing the finites of love

and sitting with your hands clasped,

cross legged like a child;

and still you say,

“no, it’s nothing, never mind.”