The Art of Finding Oneself

She told me I should go and find myself.
So I found myself slumped against the drawer
next to my bed, my head like lead, heavy
from the ninety proof scotch half spilled on floor.

I found myself facing myself in mirror’s
reflection. Hair matted and tangled like
a stray dog’s disheveled fur through disdain
in a loveless marriage with my own eyes.

Eyes now sixteen hours single but three
years taken in the blink of them as I
find myself crying and denying that
the egg frying will be the first in as

many years to pass single lips. I found
myself late for a meeting with no one.
Only the buoyant blossoming of the
buttercups that bear upon me as if

to force a kind of solace within my
soul. The shameless yellow glows in nothing
but a vain cry as I wave goodbye to hope
of a colour that isn’t black in my

own life. I found myself lost in some thoughts
about when you picked flowers and tied them;
a soft chain around your radiant neck,
sapphire eyes glowing in your fair smile

that curves your rosy cheeks with silk blonde waves,
that meet at shoulders that I once held so
as you were mine and you loved I but I’ve
seemed to have lost myself. I found myself

looking at a sky that though blue and bright
reigned a cloak of deceit leaking greyness
and spiteful spitting drops of rain that cloaked
my tears as I recalled the words you spoke:

‘you should go and find yourself without me.’
Well maybe your words speak some truth, yet when
I search in sky canvasses of  bright blue,
all I will find is myself without you.