even though you have never arrived, your scent
lingers in the air above this lake of fractured glass.
have you ever noticed how the light has become
more distant than it was in childhood, how
a fine, silvery mist descends on memory,
dampening the  hair on the nape of your neck?
how can the cause of absence not be relevant
to the story that is composed of my life?
how can we pretend that we had not moored
our hearts to such a fragile substance as love?
how did i give up myself for an imagined affair?

but there are days when kindness forgives
and the art of doing nothing is a kind of immortality.
there are some nights when dreams turn the moon to butter
and i can still hear your voice, still feel
my own body piece by piece dissolving,
leaving only the heart exposed and beating.
there are still times when i feel your phantom touch
and the hair on your arm brushing against my arm,
your lips on my lips making me weak with desire
how i wish you would come back

and whisper me some more lies,
oh god, such real and beautiful lies