Before morning comes to steal
the night we spent together,
I hug you closer, tighter, hoping
that time slows down to accommodate
our moments of quiet contentment.
But you were staring at the ceiling
and holding your breath. I know
what’s about to happen. I hate that
I do, but you say it anyway:
“You know how badly I want to be
with you, but I’m with her, this
can’t go on, this isn’t real.”
How nice it must be that you can
turn me into a ghost, how nice
it must be to dictate reality,
but you’re wrong. I am very real.
And so were we, for a moment.