not the poetry I wanted

Saturday, the hint of bad weather, waking warm
in a bed with your legs still imprinted,
a slight groove in your pillow. You woke
hours ago, from a nightmare, while I dreamed
of wedding outfits, of arriving late and underdressed.
By then you were purging a bloody scene
into your notebook, shocked at the horror you'd conjured,
and maybe that's why this morning, despite the easy lyricism
of a weekend, despite the long stretch of a Saturday,
I'm finding love off-kilter, tender to the touch, a bruise on my skin
whose origins I can't identity. This is not the poetry I wanted,
even rising out of a less-then-perfect sleep, but here were are,
love and I, facing each other distractedly and with a little suspicion,
and all the while the clouds overhead are thickening, weighted down
with the pummel of a storm last night's news forecasted, and I know
it's coming but who knows when, and I wonder if you will stop having
such terrible dreams, and if I will be able to arrive fully dressed
to the day of reckoning, if we will fall into each other like the last lines
of a poem, a pair of branches swaying, persistently, in the heaviest rain.