“I wait for you to come for me from everywhere.”
-Marc Chagall
Carelessly
as broken glass,
I shape you
again within
these tropes and suppositions,
as if you were more than
fog drifting through a field.
No promises,
I promised,
but I lied to myself:
all reasons were mine;
yet, you came along
with reasons
of your own.
And that was enough—
like the butterfly
that landed on your book,
to shatter my pretense
into befuddled
adolescent
stutter and shuffle.
Even now as I write,
you appear tangentially
like a ghost in a different room;
and I sigh anxiously,
conjuring what meaning
I can whisper
from nothing.
(January 9, 2015)
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