Remember when L.L. said “…sometimes I stare at the wall…”?

Traces…Fragments…Figments

or

bedroom as

“…one message…”

and then the voice, honey (?) coated

    It’s…I know you weren’t expecting this call,

    but I thought you should know…”

            I placed the phone on the pillow beside me,

            a catch in my throat

*

on the mattress, closed,

    leather-bound, makara-colored cover beneath my left hand

        in the right, a still-capped pen

    wondering if ever it would write

*

the night stand—one corner balancing books

a tulip-shaped flute, glistening from the rosé

    bubbling inside—I couldn’t yet drink

                —on the nose: raspberry, cherry, a bit of rose?

*

lamp knocked to its side, bulb burning

on the wall hands open and close

unlike the child’s game, their shapes

    unrecognizable

*

it should’ve been your voice caught dripping into my ear

it should’ve been your lips on the tulip, your fragrance weighing the air

it should’ve been your cinnamon skin beneath tipsy fingers,

and then my tongue

 

it should’ve been your shadow on the wall

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