Within invisible
Walls of dreams,
To sketch a life
That otherwise
Might never be seen.
Glass words for you,
Beloved—
Rain beads
From an abacus of pain.
But as I often said,
The future
Is in our paintbrush;
Still want to know me?
Trace my scars—
In the Braille of my past
Find something to ask.
But, of course,
You can’t…
You don’t remember.
Feelings died—
That should have died
Hereafter;
With the dial tone
On the phone
You didn’t answer.