She spent her days in love
and I spent mine asleep

Me, I have no constant.
I speak in symbols and run-ons.
Disheveled prose streams
from my lashes
and burns onto the page:
a ritual.

This is not for you
or for him
or for her.

In the summer I would tremble
at the sound of rainfall.
This discourse sears its way
throughout my throat upon recollection.

Huddled close on humid nights,
we lit candles
and whispered of spirits
and auras
and the key to releasing the sky.

Her skilled fingers found the piano keys
and struck a sad, summer melody
that stretched throughout the house.
Like dust, I could only see her
in a band of daylight.

She looked ghostly at night;
her wispy, indistinct shape
moved and bent like a willow
alongside the lights
pinned to my wall.

By and by the morning would betray us,
and that's as far as I can recall
for the summer days quickly fade
and the ruins that remain
are far too parallel to dreams.

She was real, to me.