The man of your dreams has left the dream,
and left you so softly-stranded — he has risen
from the bed whose far corners you had stretched yourself
to, like a flat world whose ends you would go to with him,
each tucked corner of the sheet like a small commitment
made and kept. And then something lifted, and you felt heavier,
something weighed down on your side that made
you know that the bed of lovers is always a scale.
To balance things, you dream him, by sheer will
coming back to you one day in a profuse
apology of rain — there, outside your door, begging
like thunder, to be let in.