Historian

I woke up alone and sideways
Sheet twisted around my ankles
The lights and my hooded sweatshirt still on

I groaned and I felt my throat hurt
My lenses had made my eyes burn
I lay there and slowly felt my dreams return

I’d dreamt I was still in your bed
And I left the gas on again
Us sleeping together never to wake up

They’d find us three days later
Curled up looking peaceful, naked,
A scandal in this town but a nice dream now.

What does it mean that I dream such things —
That I’d rather die happy than have to live 
through this?
Or maybe my dreams don’t mean anything 
It’s just my mind got used to you all the time
If I don’t think about you at all through the day 
It’s too big a change for my neurons ever to grasp,
Like my dreams haven’t quite given up on you, 
They’re frozen in time a month or two in the past.

I stood up and slid my jeans off
Staggered to the bathroom, took out my contacts,
Stared into the mirror at my red eyes

I wondered if you were sleeping,
What you were wearing and what you were dreaming
I hit the lights too hard and went back to bed.

What does it mean if I think about things 
That only mattered once to you and me?
Maybe you remember and maybe you forget 
And I’m a historian never letting it end
If I don’t think about you at all through the day 
Then before too long my synapses will relax
And I can just dream of ordinary things 
And your memories can slip on into the past

~ May 2003