Your face is always in corners.
Even those that do not contain you.
Permanent fixture of my peripheral view.
Odd, how clear and defined your features are
When invented by my eyes
While the real image is always blurred by smoke,
Low light, and lies.
The ghost of a past
That might be fictitious
More of a future that never came.
What began but never ended and lies dormant in ash trays
Ready to wake, beneath your fingers
struck like chords on a bass.
Someday I’ll tell you how you had me terrified,
So much time weaving my chosen identity,
And your laughter could shred it a thousand ways.
No one should see what’s so carefully hidden,
Even from me;
my heart is beating outside of my ribcage.
All the secrets pushed into corners
Are so painfully visible
Illuminated by your face.
Copyright © Ashley Poort