There’s This and the Journals of Sylvia Plath. That is All.

So here
is your face
like coming home
to someone you’ve not seen
and forgotten
how they look –
but in a second upon seeing them
you recall everything, every
crease,every aspect,
every gesture.

This night, the moon outside
your window ignites
our universe. This room
for me, becomes the world. From your
bed I watch the smog smudge
the trees, muffle
the passing train’s
occasional rumble
and horn, blot
any time
before you. I sleep well
here, dream of you
and wake to you
like a dream in the blue –
black beside me.
I watch you stir some
in your own sleep
and wonder
if maybe
you dream of me.

In my mind’s eye, you
are smiling boy and man,
and then I, too,
am a girl again.
Two steps above you, I circle
myself around you. I braid myself
into you. I am
covering
and covered
by you.
I carry you with me
when I leave you,
radiate you, bleed you. When I pass,
winter flowers long buried bloom.
I raise my face to the sun
for the first time in years.
My heart rages in my chest.
I am beautiful.

 


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