the way a shadow does
under sudden scalding light,
never substantial to start with,
not even a memory,
not even a ghost feeling drained,
as if she feeds off what was
until there is nothing left
to feed off of,
I feel my breathing,
and know from it I am here,
only I can’t see myself
or perhaps the mere outline
of what I have been,
a child’s coloring book
or a paint by numbers art work,
needing someone or something
to fill in the appropriate colors
so I can exist again,
wishing she would be the one,
her artistic fingers holding
the paint brush or crayon
that recreates me,
though I know she never will,
and I am as invisible to her as to myself.
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