Weft

The cloth’s texture
which rubs my flesh,
chafes my thighs,
catches on a moist lip,
a drowsy eyelash
is yours.

The weave of affection,
once so ordered and flat,
so fit for purpose,
is time-unraveled:
a Turin shroud
diligently laundered
once  too often.

This once covered you
took your form,
trapped your sighs,
sipped sleep-shed tears,
and ensnared the phantasms
of terrible nights.

Now a cocoon
your shape inverted
in ghostly wisps
too delicate to tug,
the intricate lace
of life shrugged off
one new morning.

I am and will always
be an archeologist,
devoted to the study
of the landscape
you’ve traversed.