I sit on our blue couch and look towards you
standing by the window in your yellow dress.
All that you are coalesces into bronze, for this
is how I will stow you away in my mind: a statue
of sorts; for future reference.
A future you will not be in, the one in which
I take you out of little cardboard boxes
of remembrance and re-enact our scenes of life.
I may place you on a bed, with the hint of a smile
crawling across your shiny face and, stiff,
you will stare at the ceiling for inspiration, for life,
as I stroke the veneer of your tarnished copper.
Or I will stand you against the rail of the deck
and, mute, you will look for a corner of the sky,
while I pretend to see a flicker in your eye
but not the pool of pain at your feet.
In your world, the one in which I have been turned
into marble, you will not take me out to play
but leave me heavy in the back of your history.