Phase

I do not know when it started,
or how or why.
All I know is that it did,
And that it is now a phase,
A terrible reoccurrence,
doomed to repeat itself,
like some false history.

He comes and goes,
or merely ducks underneath,
behind and hides,
in clouds or grey, and clouds of white.
During the day nothing more that a blur,
But on a clear night he emerges.
A fresh and renewed.

Smiles at the simple discomfort he brings,
Laughs at the awkward conversations we share,
Avoids the closeness of hands,
Moves away from kisses on cheeks.
As sudden as he arrives,
Like the constant irregularity of the cycle,
He is gone, tucked under the comforting,
masses of cotton clouds.
And just like that, he departed.