you don't stir (old poem)

the key is yours
you gave it to me.

i felt it in my pocket
climbing the stairs
to the back of your
apartment.

you're probably asleep,
but i couldn't--
mind edgy
and single tracked
staring days into dark.

so i walked
through path
of leaf and shadow,
doubtful rehearsing
of confidence and might,
nervous hands
warming your single key.

i would say to you,
lady, that you are felt
more than in a mouth
      or at a fingers ends
             a slightly swollen lip
             a wetted eye
             a tiny cut
but like
             the leaves in the trees
             the wind that pushed them to detach
             the years they took
    to return to mother,
ill feel you every night
float away with me
on distant paths
of white blankets,
of white teeth--

but you don't stir,
nothing does,
you aren't home.

weak i walk home
with cold thoughts
and brief sentiment
of the fibrous and chemical smells
        where you exist.