You are none of these things. moving
matter-of-factly around the room, doing
things that need to be done, dusting
cat hair and sentences from the furniture. Being
who I am, enjambed, backwards, I am weaving
a picture, almost solid, almost real, a looming
portrait of the you that is not you, feeling
that if only I could add here, something
ethereal would happen in the adding.

Finished. But something disappointing:
the resemblance, uncanny, unnerving,
unswervingly different from my leading
lady. Then, I realise, my eyes are following
you matter-of-factly round the room, wondering
when you will kiss me. What am I forgetting?
I am always forgetting something.

Tags: poetry