art hangs on the walls, searching for a buyer,
and your un-ironed shirt drapes your body,
somehow weaker than three nights prior,
same shirt, different meaning?
I remember the shirt only on my floor,
next to a book I’d meant to finish,
a recognized action from before,
that and the way you grasp my hand, smell my neck.
Repeated brushstrokes on an unclean board,
art or mistake?
Are we changed or perhaps just bored?
Are we doomed to never fully meet?
Here you are, but where are you?
A ghost swirling in front of me,
a greedy memory I dwell upon when I feel alone,
never present, yet never changed.
A hope i find in the offering of art,
that someday you might be Truth for me.
the endless renewal, a newly discovered start,
and i for you, endless beginnings.