Look, it’s soon March, and I’m not the one weeping,
you are the one weeping,
and yes, I am weeping.

It’s a leap year,
so here I am, trying to negotiate
an early bloom, a new, normal
surprise bloom.

I know we agreed to stop counting
by Day 3 or 4, but when you’re asleep,
I cannot help but crinkle the pages,
dare a re-glimpse.

(What do I discover but the words,
blinding and binding,
and your gentle breathing?)

My friends and my mother likely think
I am stupid (of course not!
I am stupid for thinking that), subjecting
myself to the night like this,
the easy colour of its longing.

Well, yes—yes to it all.
Accepting their love,
Despairing over the climate,
Thinking of how you’ve kept folded,
the shirt I folded for you.

The days are getting longer.

I won’t (won’t!) weep in your morning.