By igorovsyannykov via Pixabay

Vignettes were never quite
my specialty, the wrist-flick
pull, dart throw
necessity of pinning

dragonfly seconds to
a cork board. So much so
I swam instead
between recollections,

spelunking for those
olive-sharp moments I
might polish off, microscope,
check and check again.

Where did I lose you?
Surely the puppets were
too soon, mimic chatter
in our backseat theatre

growing up. Perhaps I pulled
too many sliding doors
in sibling yearning, sculpting
checkpoint hallways you

studded full of deadbolts.
But I should’ve known
one-way mirrors
always were your favourite.

Or were they? Cramming
meteor dents from conversations
that never happened with
radio sequels, broom feet,

shuffled and re-dealt
lock-boxed ticket stubs of
honesty. Finally I gathered
hourglass veins, the artform
of the overgrown wait.

Here at the playwright’s gate
we once squandered on a wishing eve,
an encore seat bears
your name;

meant to be empty,
meant to be claimed.

Poet, writer, and digital artist. Looking for the ways words catch like silver in the rain. Writer for The Creative Café, P.S. I Love You, and The Startup.

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