Tip of the Tongue

What’s it called when the days pass by
without much of note?
What’s it called when I expect to catch word
or sound or scent or
pick up your trail?
What’s it called when I’m waiting to
wait, when I’m yearning to
yearn, when I’m learning
to learn, or at least believe,
the things I’ve always known?
What’s it called when I’m calmly frustrated,
when I’m excited to be numb,
at last, our memories dismembered,
in a park somewhere, left behind?
What’s it called,
on the tip of my tongue,
it’s not quite your name,
but it certainly rhymes.

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