I have immortalized you in my writing,
Burned your face into the backs of my eyelids
and thought of you daily for years, why?
I suppose I had belief in the notion that
One day you would want to know what
colour my eyes were in the morning,
compared to the colour they are at night.
Maybe that you’d notice the different
colours in my hair or the way I think
spine doesn’t sit quite in the middle of
My back and so I’m always bending to the left.
Maybe you would want to know all the
things that I know about you, what photos
I keep by my bed or what drawer I keep
my socks in.
But by the time you’ve noticed that my eyes
are greyer as the day goes on, seen the vertebrae
down my body that I think are mismatched, know
that there is a picture of you on my shelf or
that I keep my socks in with my tights, it will
all be too late because that will be the day
that I finally give you up, I check in to an asylum
and tell them the story of how the sun died every
night just to let the moon breathe for a while.