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Coyote-eyed,
It watches us.
It prowls ours shores and borders,
silent moments,
sleepless hours,
awkward corners.
My insufficiency.
My failure
to be the girl you still imagine.
Your complement,
The One
who’ll render you
the man you still believe you could be.
My self-sufficiency.
My introversion.
My failure
to make demands,
to be the girl
who couldn’t live without you.
And most obscene,
my normalcy.
My charmless bourgeois dullness.
The part of me too like yourself.
The weakness, also yours
and unaccepted.
It watches me:
I catch its glance,
unpitying,
observing every mis-step
as you absent yourself
into the restaurant’s champagne of frothy chatter.
Quite hopeless now
to offer more - more talk, more shallow brightness -
You’re somewhere else with your imagination.
You will not be back til morning.
Oh, there are moments,
making love,
when brittle angles soften,
when failure is moistened to forgiveness,
to collusion,
to occlusion.
Brought close enough
we seem complete.
Apart, illusion falters.
The lacunae in me
are also yours
and love,
ephemeral, unchecked
sifts swiftly through them.
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Not near enough
