If the stone benches could talk
Would they tell you what they missed more
Your marble legs an irony against their grey skin
Or how you sat there the whole night and for once,
made them feel wanted

Did you ever wonder
smoking into those nights by the lake
would you smoke enough
long enough stay enough
to touch the sky's ceiling

What was more beautiful
The moon descending for the day
The skies bruising to bid adieu to the night
Or seeing yourself in the
crystal ball of an eye
convicting you to memory

Is your gingham pink collar
missing any fingerprints
or have you in your obsession
starched them away for newness and forgetting

Do you realise something in the air
will raise its hand to acknowledge you were once here
even if you are now not

People are designed to forget faces first
and words later
But what might you hold on to as your mind's fingers
slip away
Is it the palm that cradled you in
Or the other mind's fingers

Did you run after the questions
who ran away
Was he Pride, or was she Denial
Was It fear

Is missing silent by day
and articulate by night

When the pizza that took forty minutes to
bake and served with ice water did you think it
could lead this stanza

What is a Saturday
Is it the afternoons spent waiting while pretending
to be writing
Is it the nights that in reality
is a Sunday morning

Is it okay for a muse
to kill you
in exchange for making you feel alive

Are you a fairytale
or one of those biblical parables
departing with a stern lesson learned

Is it really you
Or are you simply tied to leftovers of a heart's fiber
that seem remotely familiar