It’s the usual routine.

The morning avoiding, waiting

for her to become human again.

She is not a morning person.

We dance around ourselves, hide

in rooms where the other is not, move

to the hidden spaces like soldiers,

avoiding sniping. I get a shot at

for what I have not done yet, the

boring chores that, more and more,

interest me less and less.

There is more to life.

After a while, we find our places,

separate spaces where we can be

alone together, out of range

of each other, while the dead morning

falls. I wait until she recalls

what our nearly normal is. However

did it come to this?

Life can be so good.

I wonder why we always

manage to make it

not so.