TO MY LES
Yesterday, I cried,
for the crumbling facade
strewn before me
masked in dusk’s twilight
granulated dreams sifting through the undertow,
and all I did was look in the mirror.
Last night, your image grieved my dreams
and haunted me
dismissing my decade
with succinct brevity
questioning my impishness
my backwards desire
to constantly be the actress,
not the artist.
Your voice became
my seed’s father
and we shared creative intimacies
at 2am
webbing inspiration
until only the quilt is left.
Until now,
missing you was like a forgotten eulogy
words addressing death instead of life
and you were a yellowed article,
never scrapbooked,
revisited with every unpacking,
as if you were part of the ritual
sharing a planned space
caught only by death.
In these most lonely hours
you still look out for me,
desperate for me to descend the crystal stair
while you hold my hand
and we laugh.
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