I’m getting used to being ignored.
I’m getting used to not asking
for more.
I’m getting used to being
an afterthought.
I’m getting used to
not mattering,
I’m getting used to it,
the numbing sense of distrust,
the numbing pain of unimportance,
the feeling of being a forgotten
ornament on a shelf you’ve stopped seeing
as you walk through your house.
I’ve gotten used to being
taken for granted,
and unnoticeable
if moved,
or if broken, or
even if stolen from right beneath your nose.
I am a vase covered with dust
next to some knickknacks,
a souvenir, perhaps,
from a nice vacation from a long,
long, forgotten


Sleeping with storms

You are
tongue tsk-tsking like unexpected rainfall
on a metal roof
sighing and grunting, rolling,
arms out in awkward angles
cracking displaced shoulders,
a loud and somewhat unsettling
sound, like lightning
and your low, rumbling snores
first quiet and slow,
are now crescendoing into
an angry fight for breath,
a manifesto
for the right
to live through the night.

And I am
reminded of evening tempests
from humid childhood summers,
tucked into darkness with too-hot covers,
listening to the nightly cacophony
turned lullaby
of anxious heat
returning to its forgiving earth,
the two reunited,
and loved
and loving
and together in the storm.

You are
facing away from me
so I drape an arm around you
and you turn,
your breathing returns to normal
as you pull me close
into you

And we fall
back to sleep.