What am I even without you? A dream
that's half-remembered, a senseless impression
that's out of time? Without a person how
would I know that I am at all? I slept
an odd cycle of hours, the books fell
when I stepped off the bed. I couldn't find
the meaning anywhere, I stopped to see
if it was the right page. I quickly woke
and realized the soft and vibrant skin
she has exposed. Who else might understand
the scattered verse I am? Without silence
there is no music, without the brief whirl
of images in mind while I'm asleep,
perhaps I would be no me at all.
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