Losing Myself
When you died, photoplays
of your images of me, projecting
in corners of your mind,
went out with your light.
You enlarged my existence,
then leaving, lessened it,
taking all your evidence of my reality,
your thoughts of me,
that electricity in your mind
that was myself--all lost as light is lost
when a switch is thrown.
Just before dawn
I walk past houses of those
not yet moored to morning, those
drifting in dreams or in a darkness
where I do not exist.
Unseen shapes whistle to me
from the trees, capture me
with their eyes. When they are still,
I know they've looked away from me
as you have. Even so,
though they do not see me,
I am still here,
though I cannot waken you,
I am still here.
Existence is a lonely gift.
Forever in search of mirrors,
especially yours,
I fight to understand
that the only reflection
keeping me alive
is in God's eye.
And though I cannot see you now,
you're there, too.
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