Old Friend

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.