I wrote a poem
and left your name out
and there it hangs
a gilded frame
without a face
a pretty background
without a story.
I spent some time
thinking of rhythm
and balance
and measured out
its perfect place
upon my wall
and there it hangs.
You are the frame
you are the measure
and every time
I read my poem
I see your face
and let it hold me
a little longer
But you remain
an unspoken name
lost in a story
made of dreams
your lovely face
a figment of
a wishful song.
from Calendrums
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