tonight the moon is italicized,
an oval instead of a circle.
my bed is italicized,
a parallelogram instead
of a rectangle. before sleeping,
you say I love you,
instead of I love you.
I say I love you, instead of
I love you, and you
don’t say anything back,
though a single period
floats from your mouth,
drifts out my window,
and into the city.
you lean away from me,
for you are italicized.
the headboard is italicized,
the pillows are italicized,
the furniture in the gloom is italicized.
while you sleep, I watch the ceiling
and it is italicized too –
when I turn to hold you, it feels awkward,
as if we were two, adjoining letters
but you are italicized and I am not.