If I could contain the universe
in an hour, in a minute, in a room,
I’d fit it with mirrors, drape it in satin, drown it in champagne,
stuff it in pink crinoline, and set it up spinning.
Ours is a dizzy waltz of missed signals and broken dreams.
All those afternoons strutting about an eight-hundred-thread-count queen,
holding court with flushed cheeks and sweaty palms.
“Courtesy please. Do not disturb.”
Oh, but who am I now, my darling?
An unwelcome guest, stealing away your sunset.
With no heart to call my own,
I’ve no use for your bedroom eyes or your nesting sighs
still echoing in the hollow thickets of my soul.
I hate to think of you there, tangled and bleeding,
a universe all your own.