you're reading...

Six Years

It was discovered in tinfoil and lace: the way
your hands would softly knead dough, clumsy
gently across a kitchen counter

I once called “mine”.

And you, ghost, who follows
room to room, asks in wisps of smoke
from the stovetop

if I will ever feel “better”. This is distraction.

Your nose turns up as the timer reaches “ready”
and it is but a sound that escapes your mouth
but never reaches my ear. We were decades of footsteps,
a cold draft from the window you refused to repair.

In Autumn we exchanged letters. They sit at the font of my intention.



No comments yet.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: