The Poet’s, Not the Lover’s

The photographs

I still have of you

Are burnt in the back of my mind

The ink imprinted on my soul

A vanishing etching on a wall

I still think of you

When the moon anoints the heavens

The stars a delicate beading

On an onyx fabric sky

The tender rapping

Of the house settling

In the stillness of night

Still whispers your name

As if professing the sounds

Of what I can’t replicate

But so badly, wish to learn how

I still hear you

When the warmth of day

Seeps into my bones

Windows down

In the chorus of a song

I thought lyrics belonged to everyone

But have since realized

I was wrong

Still I look at him

And he will look at her

In a puzzled frivolous waltz

He will polish his trophies

Putting the right ones out to display

This time around

Her eyes an ember honey

Mine an olive green

I wonder if they ever melt

Back into the forest of unseen