Untitled [You did say, need me less and I'll want you more]
You did say, need me less and I'll want you more. I'm still shellshocked at needing anyone, used to being used to it on my own. It won't be me out on the tiles till four- thirty, while you're in bed, willing the door open with your need. You wanted her then, more. Because you need to, I woke alone in what's not yet our room, strewn, though, with your guitar, shoes, notebook, socks, trousers enjambed with mine. Half the world was sleeping it off in every other bed under my roof. I wish I had a roof over my bed to pull down on my head when I feel damned by wanting you so much it looks like need.
From Love, Death, and the Changing of the Seasons (New York: Arbor House, 1986). Copyright © 1986 by Marilyn Hacker. Reprinted with the permission of Frances Collin Literary Agency. All rights reserved.