The hardwood floor at my back,
I stare up at my single, complicated curtain.
The sun turns its tenuous shadows to corporeal grace,
And the air, as if to prove reality,
Possesses the cloth to wave, hello.
It is Summer and I am young.
Warmth barely slants through the panes,
Stretches out to touch my feet;
No other part of me exists.
I am ethereal, god-like
And imaginary;
Whatever I feel comes to life --
I breathe, and then it dies.
These perfect, immutable theories
All explode,
Caught fire by my body's chemicals:
A reminder that I can never
Be the mirrored calm of my own inert form.
And like the stillness of my toes,
The unrest of my mind
Lies juxtaposition to reality:
I am young and it is Summer.

The hardwood is pleasant, cool on my back.
I exist,
If only the part of me your shoulder touches.
My hands accompany my mouth
In explanation of whatever story I might be telling.
You listen.

But, when I am finally still,
The sunlight leaves me.
Snow, wind-kissed, slips through the open panes,
As if seconds have carried seasons
But hold the sway of centuries.
I get up, alone,
An old woman who contemplates an end
To this neglect:
The curtain moves
But will not wave, goodbye.