Another post. Last one wasn't getting much attention, so here's another.

Letters To You, 1

Mornings are the hardest
time. November sun pushes
its grayish face through
venetian blinds, prying my eyes
open, making sure I know
that you’re
someplace
else.

The smallest
bed is named “twin”
because one is lonesome
wrapped in quilts
that once knew
your skin.

I am warm enough
without you.
The late autumn chill
does not slip between
sheets to savage my skin.
But memory has
its own persistent constellations
that are not altered
by the axis tilt of the earth.
My mind’s eye is not
obscured by snow blankets
or melted by spring thaw. Memories
only run together in April rivers,
to escape to the sea.

Ghosts of mosquitoes whisper
dreams into my ear –
Go back to August
when I shook like a reed
in the wind, but you
stilled me with your
head over my collarbone.
There is still a space there for you.

We were choreographed in
summer and before
every leaf could
decorate its face with fire and fall,
you finished your dance
to accolades backstage,
leaving me down and center
without name to call.

Maybe tomorrow morning
will slide itself softly over me
and I will forget the steps
and the rhythm of your lips.
11/23/04

I'm thinking of tigtening up word choice, removing adjectives, and making it more active. Your thoughts?