the weight of words

Right now, I don't want love. Even like, in a more than friendly way, would be pushing it. I have my pangs, certainly, but mostly I'm dedicated to being happy and content with myself, to learning more about how I connect with other people, and that's working out well. As when I went through this before, I'm making new friends, thinking new thoughts, and trying to learn as much from myself as I can.
BUT. Every time I sit on my bed with a large stack of books next to me, I think of this poem. The momentary pang at the end of a matter-of-fact reminiscence reminds me of now. Regardless of how I feel about love, I miss moments of connection sometimes.

Bay Poem from Berkeley
Sandra Cisneros

Mornings I still
reach for you before
opening my eyes.

An antique habit from
last summer when we pulled
each other into the heat of groin
and belly, slept with an arm
around the other.

The Texas sun was like that.
Like a body asleep beside you.

But when I open my eyes
to the flannel and down,
mist at the window and blue
light from the bay, I remember
where I am.

This weight
on the other side of the bed
is only books, not you. What
I said I loved more than you.
True.

Though these mornings
I wish books loved back.