Weft

The cloth’s texture

which rubs my flesh,

chafes my thighs,

catches on a moist lip,

a drowsy eyelash

is yours.

The weave of affection,

once so ordered and flat,

so fit for purpose,

is time-unraveled:

a Turin shroud

diligently laundered

once  too often.

This once covered you

took your form,

trapped your sighs,

sipped sleep-shed tears,

and ensnared the phantasms

of terrible nights.

Now a cocoon

your shape inverted

in ghostly wisps

too delicate to tug,

the intricate lace

of life shrugged off

one new morning.

I am and will always

be an archeologist,

devoted to the study

of the landscape

you’ve traversed.