To Her

At the bottom of a bottle, I wrote you a dream—
a singular frame in a serpentine reel
built piecemeal upon these muted nights.
Each time
I sink to these depths, or burn to the end of the sulfur tunnel,
I realize with a shock how much time
has passed,
would have been bequeathed to you,
would have eroded me into a looking-glass self.
Our scenes are discomfiting in their hollowness
yet transfixing in their opaqueness: rooms of
dingy smoke,
the nuanced anger of self-blame,
the unwashed grime of despised touch;
an underscoring shade of apology
that this cliché was the best we could create.

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