Evening shadows slain, the material changes
with the landscape, and you change with each
passing day. The nights are flooded with
my memories. I can't continue creating a world
where you don't exist, nor can I continue
to lock you up inside my past. You are not
the same. I swore that when you spoke, you
smiled like the glint of the moon reflecting
upon the cosmonaut's glass helmet. I swore
for several days, hoping I would drown my
aggression inside of a mess of language.
Until I imagined you lying next to me,
the fire from the television toning our faces,
I was afraid you were too perfect a formation.
And you faded instantly. Like leaves blowing
from a leaf blower, the mechanics swiftly
sent your image into obliteration: a color
unrecognized, false, and posterior of the room
I was in. There was no glow, no lips nor skin
exposed, no toenails scratching my achilleas,
and nothing that resembled a future home.
Everything you said, like my daily dreaming
of you, and me catching shadows, is all smoke.
