The Sun leaves me—too soon—like a tired mother—
naps after a 9 to 5.
Haven’t been seen much—but my ears yearn for a page flip—
By her again.
Signed emails and grocery receipts.
Like Taylor said: collect the scraps before they’re taken away,
Too soon—so I take my files—piles
Collected in drawers—closets.
Sprawled on the floor around me, all 200 square feet.
Hope to patch her up again—a paper mâché woman—an imitation.
Strikingly unfamiliar—chewed-up, layered, splattered pages—her chapter.
Towering stacks of photos, plum shades of nail polish,
I grasp for—
only to feel yet another imitation.