His back is to me, half-cast in shadow.
Light lends depth, borrowed brilliance
filtering through the window; we can't
stay like this forever. I could follow him
into a future of caged songbirds & violins
strung with the guts of men who weren't so
mad before meeting us. What distinction
might be drawn between discovery &
dismemberment? I mind neither ruin
nor revelation, imagining myself immune
to the inherent loss of substance which
occurs with sharpening, picturing
partition as evolution. See how I
have grown, outgrown independence,
his praise and shaping sustenance
enough. I'm not a delicate flower
in need of light to bloom;
this isn't wilting, how I
bend, how I've broken--
Or I could watch him go
& fall in love with his
ghost.