Old; Stale

The routine of it is old.
As if to grow mold on bread.
A loss of freshness.
Absent of flavor.
Once to savor unexpected adventure.
Anticipated to come.
With more everyday done.

Too stale to pretend,
The giving to want is endless.
And the knowing that it has?
Has left me preferring,
Buds on flowers and leaves on trees...
Bloom into something much more,
Than a boring you bring.
Gone.
From my mind.
No longer sought to explore,
Rushing to open my door.
Knowing within minutes,
Your infrequent visits...
Will interrupt my nodding.
Until you claim to say I snore!

'Snore?
I was deeply meditating.'

'Meditating on what or for what?'

'Well...
Honestly?
Whenever you come to visit?
Your presence,
Immediately puts me to sleep.'

'Maybe we both should go to bed?'

'To do what?'

'You know.
What we use to always do!'

'Always?
Those 'all ways' we use to do?
I'd rather go to sleep and hope to dream.
For what it was and who it was,
Years ago.
I wanted that much,
To adventure and explore.'

'So...
What do you recommend?'

'Keep talking.
And before you leave,
Awaken me.
To tell me what you said.
That I needed to help me sleep peacefully!'

'Oh?
Are you calling me boring?'

'Well...
You were the one who said I snore.
And I wasn't even aware of it!
Although I will say this,
Whatever you did to do...
It was terrific.
Immediately I fell into a deep meditation!
However...
Not as deep as the last time I remember.'