For an audience of n(one)

An old poem, revisited

Author’s photo of “America Windows” by Marc Chagall

I know it’s wrong
that I still want you
to read all of my words.

To regard you in patient silence
as your eyes graze what I wrote,
searching for their familiar warmth and glow.

I remember when you used to read me,
how your face formed
the most perfect expression.

And I sighed, knowing
the effect couldn’t last.
You moved on,
found another book,
turned another’s page.

I once felt sick to my stomach
while waiting for your reply.
Now what remains is the hole
gouged into my heart
as I remember our goodbye.

There are times when you reappear
hazy in the distance,
and I wonder if the idea of us
was always a mirage.

I still glimpse your bottom lip,
bitten in contemplation,
the uncharted constellation of thoughts
that flicker behind your eyes