A porcelain face lives
On the ceiling above my bed.
When I lie back, I see
Its blue gaze
Stained into the sheetrock,
And I wait
And wonder when
The stare will stop.
Soon I fall asleep
To the caress
Of its breath on my brow,
And fingers,
I imagine,
Trace paths through my hair
Until dreams take me
To winter cities
And parks in summer
We walked so long ago.
Every morning I wake
To that pallid mask
And its laughter
Like silver frost
Licking at my ears. My lips
Are dry from midnight kisses,
And my chest is heavy
From where it lay its head. Once
My tongue tingled
With the taste of ripe cherries,
And the warmth of your skin
Coated me in a light sweat.
But by daylight
My mouth savors
Only sweet memories,
And my arms lay open
And empty.
He Who Wanders 