The fire you wore is the color
of my eyes. I have mistook a quiet
room once for your laughter
and the curtains once for your hair.
My shadow: plural and your absence:
a chorus—a fistful of light through
the crack—cobwebs as piano keys—
cupboards and drawers for keeping
memories—green blessings growing
in the sink—your shadow stepping
out of the wall. I am waiting for when
you will open the door. An empty
room is another word for music,
the song of the man, the woman,
the boy and the girl that slipped
out and left their shadows behind.
Your voice is my favorite album,
you left but your bones are still here.