growing up
has given to me
a voice more adequate for whispers

for these days at least
an opera love affair starting,
closing those fires gone cold
with sweet careful words
in tune of affections
bourne once bitterness too
has grown too tired

i dont follow music much anymore,
not like i used to,
and his voice to me sounded hollow,
angry, sweet, and sullen
that I could not help but smile
for the indulgence

he loved me once upon a time,
i swear

his hand felt smooth and warm,
as it did back when
i did not think to dye my hair,
and as i squinted at his back
walking sun framed as if a costume and mask
i knew
i would not see him
in flesh again