• Though I no longer see you
    in truth, I will love you in metaphors.

    You are the orchid I water on Sundays. I
    think of you when I rise early: the bird-call
    and open-windowed chill I remember from your bed.

    I notice your absence in rays of sunlight, in the way
    they pierce my windows unimpeded. Your body
    is not haloed by their raised hands.

    In my dreams you are the captured king,
    still telling me I’m beautiful
    in just your crown. I wake
    reluctant to dress; I believe you

    then, because I can see you
    in my skin. I cast you off,

    but you keep growing back. That orchid
    will not die. I avoid rising early. I
    collect hats. I love you in metaphors.