I wake up feeling hot; it's very early in the night.
You are wide awake beside me, and feeling hot too.
I see you looking at me by the quiet street light,
and wonder if I am starting to feel alone when I'm with you.
You ask me sweetly whether I'm all right;
I reply that I'm OK, and How about you?
What I don't say is I've just given myself a fright
by wondering if I'm starting to feel alone when I'm with you.
In the morning I will kick you in the stomach
by leaving again, as I usually do.
But this is about something even worse than that,
about whether I'm starting to feel alone when I'm with you.
We had words instead of love last night,
and of course that left both of us feeling blue.
But already, hours before that fight,
I may have been starting to feel alone although I was with
Outside our room the first cars have just gone by,
and far-away trains are beginning to rumble through.
Is it both of us yet, dear friend, or still only I
who wonder if I'm starting to feel alone when I'm with you?
If you've any comments on this poem, Rip Bulkeley would be pleased to hear from you.