over time
i have tuned
my eyes to see
(erroneously, maybe)
a subdued wash of color
seeping through wood
as a loaded metaphor
a symbol of my own
martyrdom
or emotional state..
he was not any different
the brushed alabaster
the wooden bed
the “yellow,
like fresh butter”
the contrived meaning
of his growing
affection
how else could i explain the
pulsating snap
of our spines ?
the impression on
a coat of wet
paint?
he is-
he was the bedroom in florida
i hung him in the hallway
and
i don’t think of him often
but great softness
is haunting
even when shuttered
and discounted.
– sheila c.
sheila sea 
I agree. He will always be there somewhere beneath the surface. Or the memory of us. Hope you’re doing well. I’ve been doing other things. Right now I’m at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival. You?
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Beautiful.
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Beautiful. ❤️
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Imagery, imagery everywhere
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This is so beautiful! Love your poetry so much.
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I like that poem. Beautiful writing! Thank you for following my blog. 🙂
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Beautiful poetry!
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Amazing! I love the intricate lace of feelings sweeping all over this poem!
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Ahh that’s such a lovely phrase. Thank you. 🙂
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