He always came in the night,
shining hands touching every inch
of my pains,
softly breaking through the beveled glass,
filtering the dark
into tangible shades of gray,
illuminating my dreams
with bouquets of hand-picked stars.
He longed for the solidity
of my rustic wooden beams,
hand carved, stained mahogany,
the velvet richness seeped into
the deepest of knots within my ribs,
Hungering for my hearth
ever teeming with embers,
glowing.
He wove his platinum fingers
through my southward facing vines,
braiding the wisteria with the ivy
until they crowned my door,
whispering silver tongued sonnets
of his belonging.
Then one night he waned,
called back to the water
that danced with his teasing,
filling the shore
with constant waves
of disappointment
frothed with crescents of fear.
And I remained, atop this blue mountain,
forgotten,
frames shuttered to his gaze.
Names of others came and went,
carved into my bones,
just tattoos of memory,
the floors collecting the ashes of them,
residue piling in the crevices,
ever longing
for pewter caresses
that would make pale these shadows again.
I etch his name upon my door,
shape it out of the dust,
trace it amid the fog on every mirror,
so that, shall he return,
he will remember this
is where he once belonged.