Tell me if you are going to be sleepless
tonight. Tell me if it is love
that will be doing it, and I will know if you are poor
like so many, broken and grounded.
Sometimes we lie
not knowing ourselves what was ours.

I try to name everything that was once ours
but I am losing more and more each day; sleepless
sometimes when I am alone, lying
in the dark, trying to empty my thoughts of love.
Gradually grounded
comfortably poor.

Tell me what you remember about being poor
speak of what distance means to you. In your words, our
stories. How every place was a hostile ground.
Talk until the both of us are sleepless.
Tell of this thing called love
and if you cannot or have to, lie.

The only lies I tell myself, are the lies
that I tell myself sometimes when I am too poor
in understanding what I had before. Love
is ever elusive, even as a memory. But what was ours
will remain sleepless
in me, like roots taking ground.

It feels like I have been walking in circles ever since. The ground
bears my footprints; it does not lie.
It feels like I have been sleepless
after you. I am poor
at this, bearing all this load and yet our
stories are all I have to remind me of our love.

Someone once said Love
is a place, a holy ground
that is ours
for the taking. To lie
in its light one would need to be poor
again, sleepless.

Will we find what was ours in another, old love?
I will wait for your answer, sleepless. Stare at the ground
for some stillness; lie to myself and wait. Poorly.