There is a place in my room
Where sometimes the light falls.
It forms a shape and a softness
That reminds me of something
I am trying to ignore.
That laundry pile silhouette,
It is a rounding curve.
The cardboard tube and paper,
Forms an inelegant hand.
I reach out, but already know
The touch of that shadow
Is a cold, hard wall.
In wires that intricately cross,
I can see the line of your chin
And your lips, almost.
The scarf casts a dark streak,
I think, if I turn my head,
It is your hair.
The bottle of water beside
Scatters, flickers the light.
Across the place wholly it falls,
And it is almost like a dance.
