You weren't supposed to go,
to chase your dragonflies without me.
Your, "We'll never be apart," turned into
"Soon, we'll be together."
When you asked me about your leaving,
I told you I know how distance wears away,
pries apart. But you went anyway
running straight into the noonday sun.
And I live for weekends, wandering room to room,
among your anatomy books and laundry,
here, in the home we made together,
choosing couches and rugs, this time last year.
I bite my nails and stare at photographs--
us smiling in the redwoods, in the Bighorns.
The dog whines by the door, and I sleep too much.
I wake up alone on your side of the bed.
What you grasp is handfuls of air;
you try to hold the invisible.
Will you take your shadow as lover?
I won't be mistress to that; I will not compete.
Don't you see me slapping the glass,
mouthing your name, pleading you stay?
Maybe you'll stop chasing yourself long enough to
notice me pulling the blinds and looking away.
All poems copyrighted by the author, Tracey Besmark 1997©
