Steinmare or “Wherein the poet considers his late night circumstances and covets another’s non-stone extruding kidneys”

Somewhere
Among the dim lights and feathering rain of this city
There is a You that is breathing.

Inhaling oxygen and exhaling
Carbon dioxide and tears.
And dreams and fears too maybe.

Perhaps the You is already
Tucked deep within the many folds
Of sleep and blankets,
Socked toes curling and uncurling.

Perhaps the You is drinking
Steaming tea from some well worn mug
And listening to the rain in the darkness
From Your plant-strewn balcony.
Hearing the same midnight churn.
Swift tires on wet tarmac.

Perhaps the You is still out in the world,
Hair a drizzled damp mess,
Head fizzy and drumming,
The joyful stains of a night well spent
Streaming down Your face.

Well we’ll worry not,
The You and the Me.

Whichever the case may be,
And I am sure that this is true,
I will find the We
That is born of Me and You.