Without

Each morning has stopped being the same
Though the dogs don’t pronounce this.
It’s something in the sound of the car
Responding to my touch, something
In the sleep left in my waking bones.    

Last night he gave me a line to a song
I miss picking up old furniture with you
That we are writing without music
In the strangeness of the season
Plucking strings of surprise.

It is the end of days, my baby,
And we are still here, and I am still
Figuring out how to love without
Knowing how to end a time without
Needing someone and not being without.

–Shaun Perkins