Dissipating

Your hands have grown,

so I can’t compare you to the rain.

Now I count each time you reach

for mine, each time you appear

like a spectre at my side of the bed.

Monday morning, and only worries

hugged me in this weekend’s sleeps.

     I fear this is the end--

After all, a kiss can’t stop

a thunderstorm’s eye from cycling.

Sigh. Number 9 of 30 Poems in November to benefit Center for New Americans!