Retrospectorant

Retrospectorant

She contoured to his emotions as adeptly as the wrinkles in his face.

Her loose edges folded in geometrical submission.

The end result hid her own dim and sketchy little lines like a sonogram.

Because she had not been ready for a compliment.

She had needed.

To be pushed.

And I imagine she still smelled like him after he left (or was it she that left?)

Was of him in essence, though not in fact,

Like an empty perfume bottle.

Beautiful within the boundaries of its purpose,

Beautiful in its alignment,

Ordered,

Proud.

Its afterlife spent lingering on tabletops.

Perhaps moved to a dresser drawer.

But if you cross the borders of purpose,

They say you are likely to fall from the earth.

She was made more interesting by the bruises he gave her.

Staining her reds, purples, blues, greens.

And the spectrum between these.

Not with negligence,

Nor by wear,

But something wholly different.

Careful attention to detail, the work of a master craftsman with the hint of the poet/the artiste there.

She too gave meticulous, analytic attention

To these chinks of colour like shattered stained glass

Filtered light

Over her.

These extraordinary shades,

Shades her body would not normally credit her.

And when he left (or was it she?)

She would vomit.

And vomit.

She would learn to vomit.

She would learn to vomit

And make her own.

We all have so much

Creative energy

Begging

To be brought out