Your laughter swings
through the vines, every second
a swing-set secret, a whispered dalliance.
I haven’t seen that smile in forever.
This isn’t real, I say, I feel
the non-sequiturs of sleep creep past,
an unnamed animal of the night.
Syrup trickles down
my throat as you clamp my mouth shut.
No, it’s not, but it’s still here,
your words aren’t a demand, but I listen
like they are. I swallow and try
not to look at your eyes. So we run and run
through the green screen,
through golden sun and dappled leaves,
through sunshower floods and a rapid spring bloom,
prisms in the matrix. We leap
and there’s no stumble beneath our feet,
no tangle in our hair. It’s all malleable,
time stuck in dripping glass.
I know empty space too well
and this is overflowing.
You still live in my house, in picture frames
face down. You are the scratches
of your favorite record
that I spin on Sundays like a prayer.
You are the wine stain in the carpet
and the dent in the fridge. You are
the creak in the stairs I step over
because I know better than to hold you.
I know better than to look back.
I loved the "you are" part of this poem. The more you can compare the person to something you have something to hold in your hands. Great poem