10/26/22

At least there’s still beautiful things

Hints of pink in the clouds sometimes I

Forget I’m not living in a portrait

Hanging on your mantle, I hope

Over your fireplace, I get so

Cold. Sometimes at dinner parties I

Can almost smell the tea and crumpets as

Someone remarks: well isn’t that

Lovely? Isn’t that simply

Beautiful? And I almost

Think I’m real, crafted

From velveteen and not

Painted on an August morning by

Numb fingers disheveled hair and

Opened skin, cracked open like

A vault, but this time it’s

Empty. You swallowed the key I

Think. I’m never sure. A different

Me applauded your magic.