Thread

I didn't recognize you.
But then, they tell me you weren't there.
Can you still recognize me,
Seated in your distant vantage point?

I wish you were closer,
Nearer in my mind,
More than an amalgam of whittled thoughts. . .
More than vague sensations, grazing the past.

I remember how dry you were, the last one.
A canvas of ground in powders and blush,
Never comparing to the art you made,
Never comparing to the art you were.

I wish they'd sewn my eyes shut too.
I wish this wasn't my final impression -
A cold, carved silhouette, an offering of waxed fruit,
A silent heart under threaded lips.