Echo

all i have in my head
is other people's poetry
lyrically rhyming
and singing
and your voice
i can hear it any time
pre-recorded
your poems pre-written
none of it for me
but it thrills me none-the-less

my mind is a ghost town
full or artifacts
so bent and warped
by the sands of memory
yellowed newspaper clippings
summarize the main events
echoed conversations
force a smile

and god-damn you
you still bring a flush
to my cheek
well the projection
of yourself you sent
in your place
i liked him
let him know,
would you?
perhaps he'd like
to see me some time

we'll brush the dust
from the rocking chair
and sit and swing
and reminisce
about the fossilized
shells of ourselves
smiling at us
through broken picture frames

this whole thing
was balanced
so precariously
from the start, i suppose
how was i to know
you tragic figure
with your crown
of green glass shards
it was your frailty
that won me

the vibrato
in your falsetto
the freckles on your eyelids
alas, i fear
that shade was chased
away by your raucous
belligerence
such brittle images
take care
to maintain
and your hands
are too shaky
and your step too unsteady

i wanted to keep you
like wendy longed
to keep peter pan
like the other
stray puppies
that cried on my doorstep
but you won't be kept
and i'm worn out
threadbare

so i retire
to my dollhouse
where the tinkle
of music boxes echos
like ghostly birds
through the hallways
and silhouettes
appear behind
billowing curtains
only to reveal themselves
as little more
than dust-clouds
when i pull them
to my breast