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We no longer reach after transfiguration-
coloring our sleep with metallic red, acid
yellow-carving our hearts into shapes of famous
buildings. I'm not the man who grabbed the left of your
face and kissed your right. You're not the glad host, dropped
my purple flower on the floor. We were dead things
then-shadow puppets made by small flashlights under
blankets; molecules held in stasis by wishful
thoughts. There's not been a blink
in the world when we were not each others'
other. And I know where you left your gold kimono.
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