Torch


I cut mourning apparel
from moon,
it waxes and wanes
to suit my mood,
fits like your hand
in silky waves about
my sullen shape.

I loved you more
and you walked off into night,
the likes of which I’d
never known,
brushed off crumbs of me
in one sweep so no trail
was left.

Five moments more,
maybe I’d have found
words to make you stay.
Three minutes.
Seven seconds, before you
sucked yourself back
down a hallway away from
my affections.
I saw it happen,
the instant recoil,
heard the click of your heels
then nothing.

No fire I could set
would glare bright enough
to lure you back, nor could it
procure my path, nor could it
set up in flames
the flicker
of your thumb on my knuckle.
I found a heavy branch,
wrapped its head
with a torn shred
of my moon dress,
and trudged on with my torch.

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