to think of writing something that says things like
autumn's broken ribs.
better to have him run from the room
than me.
withered boxes of love letters, corners
littered with dead petals
of flowers never sent.

unlike the dead, you are utterly
silent. but i remember a mood of expectation,
i have crocheted wishful thinking into a fine tablecloth.
i could make a thanksgiving dinner
of your charm and still have leftovers.
you left like leaves,
a trail of smoke following like storm clouds.

i might not even be talking about you--
words are like blades of grass that bend
to the prevailing wind.  we never did mention
the future--you were careful to make no promises.
i don't see that, you would say.

a master of implication, you let
me build a future you knew
you would never allow.

between the non-existent lines
with the weight of light
and the sound of spring winds through a calling of dreams
to which you directed my hearing,

there was a true confidence man.
you let me tell myself
everything i wanted you to say