I have noticed every day
I become more dull, and I don't
mean boring, I mean lacking
in sharpness, in focus.
I am becoming fuzzy. I forget
the cadence of the poems
written about me, can't seem
to count the lines and rhymes
in my head anymore.
When I think of you
lying in my bed, I recall
your absence from my bed
and resort to searching
Google for bits of information
you will never remember
to tell me; you were in a play
that had Chili in its name
and swam more laps than
you or I can keep track of.
Your parents live on a street
named after a nut, in a house
you were a child in. I imagine
you running through the yard
with your twin holding hands.
Your twin has a slew
of pages on his life too.
Somehow, this is what
helps me fall asleep on the nights
when the bed is bigger than me.