I don’t need
to be breathless
I don’t need
to watch you sleep
I don’t need
to kiss your hair
or know you’re there
the morning after
I don’t need
to know your old black boots
are under my bed
I don’t need
your flannel shirt
on the back of my old chair
I need to know
when you were alone
if you heard a voice
and if you protested
I need to know
what you said to the night
when it rested its hand
in the small of your back
I need to know
if you opened your fist
I need to know
if it left you breathless
and I need to know
what you did
the morning after.