I am a liar or
A storyteller,
Which I prefer.
You can’t find me
In my photo albums;
A different girl
Every year.
I paint many masks
And spin many tales
Just so I can
Finally
Hear anything
I can call my own.
Here is my heart
In essence,
Which isn’t necessarily
In truth,
Though I try
To fit the image.
So many
Separate
Profiles;
All less than a
Fraction
Of a whole.
But who’s to judge
Reality,
Or truth?
Call it equation;
Boil it down to
Numbers, but
Everything
Has variables.

So I’m a liar -
So is the sun,
Shining cold and
Distant
In winter;
So are you,
Pretending.
Calculate the image
Lest you leave
A jumble of
Meaningless
Numbers, just so
Many digits and
Too few faces.

With hair like
A montage of scorched
Leaves, twisted
With twigs in.
Like the biting chill or
Rustle of great beasts;
Like so many but
None at all,
You make your
Abrupt
Entrance, and
Take down the walls with
Rain.
What resides in your
Torrential mind,
Flickering with light?
A lighthouse or
Flame, yet maybe
A spark, but
Really nothing but
The beacon of your
Consciousness,
Burning your image
Into the back of my eyes,
Blinding.
I can’t see past
Your eyes,
Shuttered and shifting like
Sand, or my restless
Feet,
Filled with ephemeral light.

Caught in a riptide,
Isolation tank, or
Whatever bland metaphor
You’d accept for my
Blank stare.

Your silences
Thicken the air
And stills my hand;
All eyes on the
               Space
You occupy.
You are like the Nothing,
Infinite in your absence.
I feel your breath
Taste your mind
In the stillness,
Void Of everything
Except this Will-o-wisp
I once called my vessel.
I keep dreaming of white curtains,
Eggs frying
In the vast skillet
Of your eyes.
I'm losing sight
Waiting for you
To come up the alley.

I wake to echoes
Crunching gravel
And a warm body
Taking your place
Beside the cat
Until you arrive.