It’s a small window
I look through most days.
There’s a sunrise and a sunset
I can barely stand to look at
because it’s too beautiful
for the likes of me.
I’m not her. Or the other her.
I age and expand.
I just made small talk
about wind and scarves
while part of my brain
was lost in your limbs and grin.
I’m a damned liar.
You’re not here
but you may as well be,
for you’re imprinted on me
like a bad tattoo
one wakes up to
after a drunken debauch.
When I’m weak,
I look out the window
and compare myself
to the elements.
I’m not the rain.
Or the other storm.
I’m a damned fool.
The Word Rummager 
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