again

this has all happened before:

i am waiting for you, growing myself again

throwing myself at walls (a vine twirled like fingers, the sound

of you in the hall

walking away and coming back home, the fruit

of us flinging itself into ringlets) while

spring goes on singing, unencumbered as the birdsong

waking us up before dawn

with the rarity of this bliss, this happiness

that has always been

and yet will never be as close, perhaps, as it is so briefly right now