The window panes miss my

reflection.

Something subtly echoed

on the transparency of

the glass.

The tips of your fingers

graced the edge of my nose

up

up

along the lids of my

eyes,

instructing my pores to cut off

my supply

(of what you wanted).

It was something that you called

a phase

of intuition;

an interval in which your parsimonious extremities

craved what you couldn't evoke

(from me).

And my face fell

victim

to your touch,

surrendering to the words that did

teeter on the conscience

of your lips.

Dictating the grotesque shadows

that the neighbors regrettably

did witness.

And lullabies didn't stop you

no.

My identity was concealed

in the layers of this facade-

this face of another that you

created.

Synthetic and like someone

surreal.

And my eyes,

conducted by veins of crimson

pumping

(desperation)

so I can see how my love has

changed.

And oh my darling,

how you suppressed the beauty

you once allegedly required.

It's more clear now

that our passion

was a robbery

to no one's avail,

but your own.

And I'll pray for the sunrise to heal my wounds.

To remove this face

from my

face.

And divulge to everyone who I really am.

And you won't have to

tell me that I need to hide

from the world-

no.
Instead I'll dance
endlessly
tirelessly

relentlessly
with the shapes of reflections

morphing, shifting, shaping
elegantly printed
on the edges of this window.

I'll tell you the attic will be my place

of refuge,

and you can have a decadent dinner

(by candlelight)

with that soul

you once did steal.

And through the window

I'll see the reflection

of self-gratifying

sunsets,

that keep me

here,

under the face

(that is now my own).

And now,

in this

confined

little room,

dusty, and decorated with

cobwebs.

All I see is

you,

and the mask

you once made for me to wear-

hanging quaintly

upon my imaginary wall.