XIII. 
    
        So tired, so 
         very tired
            emotionally drained,
         physically torn, 
         and hungover
           so I will not apologize
            for slamming the door on your collapsed shadow.
         Anyway, you 
         the disappearing reappearing
                         poet
                            / 
                         doll 
         know every entrance 
                   and then some
         to mine humble abode
             (not to mention my weary soul)
         and you did find another way in,
         and I hope you were surprised
                   when your shelf wasn't there.
         I tore it down in fury.
         You placed yourself on top of the books 
                      Tennyson and
                      Rimbauld
              and watched me sleep.
         Why do you even care anymore?
            Oh, yes I care.  Too much.
         Alas, the sun also rises.
         Alas, I also rise
                                 a late Sunday morn.
                      gray skies, overcast.
         I also rise,
         Perplexed, for you were
                           still perched 
                       atop my books
                       atop my desk
             still
            where I write
            my 
            poetry.
         You had not disappeared, 
                scampering off 
                for another adventure.
         But you waited all night.
         Because we both knew 
              the episodic climax
                   the apex of the tension
                          grown between us
                   the heart wrenching
              and termination
                   that was to shortly
                                      follow
                                 breakfast.