My Diary, My List

My diary, my list
of what I never knew.

Of what plucked lyre
called you.

Of what fluttering image
beckoned from
the looking glass.

Of why the pockets
of your mornings
were never full enough
to keep you.

Of where you might be
(not being here).

I wandered
without you
below canopies of gray and pearl
scudding skies,
lark-sung grasslands,
as flat as the old
imagined earth,
looking for the edge
you had fallen off of.

Returning always alone,
to the house we had shared,
standing at the back window,
waiting for the lilac to bloom
against the weathered fence,
feeling the empty space
that was the hollow of my palm.

Each morning,
I’d wander from the wisp of dream,
tuck my heart back under the pillow,
and cross the bridge of the day.

I’d spend the twilight
writing the words down,
of how I was
looking for you
in rooms that were
the shape of your absence.

Copyright Kay Winter

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