The echo of her presence keeps me company
like a tangible shadow might lean against the wall
and refuse to be restricted to a two-dimensional world.
I can feel the horizon move beneath my feet between
black and purple as the hands of the wind pull stained
clouds over its face, hinting it is quite tired of looking
at me pace through its realm while I daydream.
“Okay, I’m leaving but you said ‘make yourself
at home,' how was I to know you didn’t really mean it?”
“No one really means it, trust me.”
Halfway down the spiral staircase is a wooden
heart propped against a stone fence, a couple of
cracks in the surface serving as peep holes.
I’m not sure if the eyes peering through belong
to your lingering absence or my relentless
introspection, but either way I feel your perfume
brushing the specks of slight resolve from my face.
“You knew it wasn’t really me no matter how much
you tried to squint and justify it, you should have kept walking.”
“Yeah, true, but is it really cheating to sleep with your shadow?”
-- Steve McKennon, 10/25/05