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i am not derivative
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i am
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the same
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as i always
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was, still wearing
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nothing but regret
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in this rain
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of you, for you
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i am a fool,
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seeing nothing but
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a blind man's cherished
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memory
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of a long-ago single sunset,
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worn and greyed with age
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a watercolor page
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forgot within
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a tome i can
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no longer read
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i have forgotten how
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to see the beauty in the space
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between, to hear the song
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of you,
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the secret
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glance you gave,
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you give
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so furtively,
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so rarely
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now.
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And so your laughter
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tinkles still, but not like bells
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that i recall:
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there is a hollow timbre
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to the note,
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an edge that cuts
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fine lines into my tongue,
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my eyes,
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and i bleed
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quietly for you,
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of you.
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