Silver on the Doorframe

He always came in the night,

shining hands touching every inch

of my pains,

softly breaking through the beveled glass,

filtering the dark

into tangible shades of gray,

illuminating my dreams

with bouquets of hand-picked stars.

He longed for the solidity

of my rustic wooden beams,

hand carved, stained mahogany,

the velvet richness seeped into

the deepest of knots within my ribs,

Hungering for my hearth

ever teeming with embers,

glowing.

He wove his platinum fingers

through my southward facing vines,

braiding the wisteria with the ivy

until they crowned my door,

whispering silver tongued sonnets

of his belonging.

Then one night he waned,

called back to the water

that danced with his teasing,

filling the shore

with constant waves

of disappointment

frothed with crescents of fear.

And I remained, atop this blue mountain,

forgotten,

frames shuttered to his gaze.

Names of others came and went,

carved into my bones,

just tattoos of memory,

the floors collecting the ashes of them,

residue piling in the crevices,

ever longing

for pewter caresses

that would make pale these shadows again.

I etch his name upon my door,

shape it out of the dust,

trace it amid the fog on every mirror,

so that, shall he return,

he will remember this

is where he once belonged.