morning. daybroken light shoulders
the rain at the window.
she has deserted me, forgotten her
breath at the foot of my bed
descending on my sleeping face.
each thought doubles. reignites the electric
spark that forms the wall of glass that is her eyes
as they watch me move. not quite moving other
than the tranquil voyage when I am still,
she is not returning.
I drift into the belly of another
silence stirred by memory.
we kiss and she vanishes from the doorway. repeat.
today she grows taller as my chest
is splintered by her mouth of moments:
a scar leaving path we walked,
a mark in my arm
remembering her for all that she was
anchored in an act I have yet to perfect.