The sky has awoken,
but still you are not here.
You are in a bed somewhere or caught
in the folds of time and space,
and yet I can smell you.
I will be happy with all the patterns here,
striped wood floor, floral bedsheet,
red numbers on the clock,
but only if you too are a pattern.
I feel you sitting next to me with sleepy eyes,
but I keep forgetting your face.
Your glasses are placed somewhere in my room while you sleep
but you are not here.
I touch this red pen to my lips like a cigarette and exhale.
How does it feel to know you will never touch my hand and are bound to forget my face in a year?
It feels like clockwork.
Your eyes are closed, but you are awake,
and your mouth is a thin number 1 on my digital clock.