a reason to leave

i'm nearly asleep
beside you, as we
listen to the rain,
and the radio on low.
you are reading from
a book you stole
from the public
library, a poem by
mark strand, called
pot roast, and it's
about the memory of
meat, the memory
of youth, and i love
that poem, and wish
you hadn't stolen
it, because now
i have to leave
and i'll never again
think of that poem,
or you, in the same way.