You, Again

How can I forget you
if you arrive before morning
puts its shoes on,
if you are already seated
in the cup where my coffee steams,
dark and patient.

I think of you at noon
when the sun splits the street in two
and time pretends to be practical.
Even then,
your name moves through me
like a shadow that knows my height.

In the afternoon
you lean against my work,
interrupting nothing,
ruining everything.
You are the quiet error
I refuse to correct.

At dusk
when the sky practices letting go,
I remember the exact weight
of your absense
not heavy,
just precise.

Night brings you without apology.
You lie beside my thoughts
as if you have always belonged there,
as if forgetting were a language
my body never learned.

Tell me, then,
how does one erase
what keeps returning
with the discipline of hours,
what signs every part of the day
in my blood?