A Perfect Spot

The breeze drifts through the open window

sun spilling between the blinds,

flowing freely, movement like soft

waves, a gentle tide

-

sun reaching out

onto the piles of books

I decorate the room with,

-

a faint warmth you feel building,

but which never climbs never too high

-

slightly sleepy, in that in-between state

that's always too brief,

-

cold water, ice cube suspended, melting its way

down the glass, sweating out a puddle.

-

You're at the desk,

typing,

-

sometimes paging through books,

I hear the words rattling around.

-

I sit and I think and I conjure up these

lost moments, fading from my mind despite

-

my tightest possible grip around them,

images disintegrating, mental film exposed

and ruining,

spoiling, unspooling,

details blurred and words once

spoken clear

now murmured in

the hallways of memory.

-

It's the hope that kills you,

and I only hold you tight in thought

while reality holds you elsewhere,

distant, 

-

all through faults of my own

problems I still can't quite 

admit to more than mirrors,

so instead I sit and picture and imagine

what I truly want, letting

-

it slip through the gaps 

between my fingers

-

like sand,

-

pouring away.