Museum Pieces

They aren’t the same
without your eyes.

My poems, I mean.
They sit like museum pieces
once living and lustrous
but now flat and lifeless
and pinned to the wall
by the absence of eyes
your eyes
in particular.

And yet still I spin
your petite Blooming Spider
fostered and called
into life by your love
and your ever-there eyes
so alert and so bright
like two diamonds in snowfall
or brown chips of light.
My words
in multitude

they pour out from me
intimidating others
so few pay attention
and savor their marrow
and turn their hides over
to show there beneath
all the worlds that lay hidden
and safe underneath
but they
(your eyes and my words)
miss each other

like ships in the night
calling to each other
but passing slow blind
and I miss you terribly
in our existence
of presence
so absent
and me on the outside
with only
my words

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