i trace your face with this pencil tip
and every time i miss your lips:
the line of your jaw as you set your mind
on an ideal that you could never find
in a house as once upon a time
as mine. i trace your face;
i get it wrong. i look for you
and find sad songs amongst
my shoes, in my garage,
behind the cans that line the cupboard
mass-produced and stained incarnadine. i find
quotations in the oddest places:
snapshots of strangers writing books
that slow-dissolve at the opening line.
i erase my mind but still
the blank tape signifies, a simple hiss of absence
a white noise kiss that never lands
like hands that tilt
towards a face they cannot touch
so only trace in faulty lines
a set of signs that point towards the house
of once-upon-a-time,
the for sale sign, the windows hollow
like my tired eyes.
