I still see you walking through the doorway.
I am taken by the way you walk, as your dress sways
the sunlight streams through the window,
touches you and wraps itself about you.
It exposes your silhouette
and reveals the curve of your thighs.
You stand silent as the soft light undresses you.
The room shimmers with a Whyethean hue.
My eyes captive to this moment
are disrobed by my desire for you.
This memory I do endure.
You've been gone a long time.
I can't bear the loss.
Denying the truth,
it's hidden in this daily task.
"I'm home?" you ask.
The walls and rooms have changed
and you don't mind that my life has been rearranged.
I speak of you in the past tense,
suffering with your reoccurring presence.
I often ask God to end this insanity.
Your dismissal has played havoc with my vanity.
You gave very little,
but you left me this fantasy.
Enough, I scream!
Fearing my anger,
I find comfort in this denial.
Trudging this circular mile.
This path is worn by an insane man running,
from the mad dog cunning,
of his denial.