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.

We’ve met before.
Your hat was jaunty
and your car was huge.
There was a war on
and we reveled in milk
and fresh apples.
There was gingham
and surprises.
We laughed in the sun.

I put my teeth over a previous imprint
to see if would feel like home.
It didn’t, but I think it’s because
I don’t have words like “comfort” or “home”
any place accessible to my psyche.

I’m a visitor, pushing light through
a tube, aiming to make sense
of numbers when I can only spell
using music. It tastes like magic
when it rains, despite poor reception.