lapidescent

they warned me about the eyes —
look away, use the mirror,
approach her only in reflection —
but nobody mentioned the hair,

each strand a separate frequency,
one for the way she holds
a coffee cup with both hands,
one for the three seconds
before she answers,
one that simply
says her name
on a loop
I cannot find the switch for,

and I am still here,
still upright,
still making the right noises
at the right times,
nodding in meetings,
returning calls,
moving through the hours
like a man with no
thunderstorm
happening inside him —

but she is not here
and she is
everywhere,

assembling herself
out of song fragments
and weather,
the hazy afternoon light
that has become
entirely hers,

and I know the myth,
I know what prolonged exposure does,
I can feel it
beginning at the edges —
the hands first,
something cooling,
something starting
to hold its shape —

and still
I do not
look away,

I walk into a room
and stand there
in the doorway, trying to remember
whatever I came for
has already slipped my mind,
but every strand of her
still alive in me