What force could cause me now to rise from your bed Raw into this sunless, frosted Sunday morning? What Strength or limitation so compels these knees and head To lifting leave your side? It's not for knowing shellshot Headache silently awaits a cue for postponed coffee brain With continental divide agony. Not for mountains, window Lacing skylines reconstructing sunrise, not for two rain- Covered bridges arching breathlessly above me. No, Not for angry bosses, bank account withdrawals or for Marionberry bran muffins or the comforts of convention Would I ever be compelled to sacrifice our soft warmth For solitude and sovereignty. While you earnestly intention Me to stay, I recall details of the darkest leaving-times: Perhaps my force of habit fears you'll change your mind.
~CRH November 2012
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