I say nothing of the imprint your name leaves-
a lit curve in the margin of my day,
arriving like mist through cedar,
a quiet weight the pines accept
without resistance.
You flicker into view,
in small, golden signals-
and I am devout in my noticing.
I have made a chapel
of your laugh.
This is no confession.
I am not reaching.
I write you in metaphors-
as sea glass,
as dusk through a shutter,
as the silence between
a struck match and its flame.
The others see a girl, well loved,
with many hearts.
But I see the quiet in her smile,
the moment before she speaks.
I see the hour before the moon
remembers she is lonely.
And if I ache,
I do so in hexameter-
all vowels, no address,
quiet, ancient,
tuned to a world
where wanting is not
the same as taking.