Hidden behind the font on this page,

you are the fading light in the corner of my room,

the [4:30] autumn day dusk,

the too short day.

Inside me, behind my lungs,

under my skin,

in my shell,

you are the better pieces

I try to gather up and keep

in plentiful demand

so I can write,

smile, 

function.

Be.

The pieces I buried,

but uncover every time my words

are laid down on paper,

they line upon the screen and I get to spend

time with you all over again.

Then to the other hidden one,

I say:

You are that constant I cannot kill …

although I’ve tried.

And I will try, over and over,

until your eyes are blank and 

meaningless,

and your name is nothing but

a label for a man taken out of

a book.

No longer you but just another name.

Then back to him:

You are the brightest star in the sky

as it dies for me,

burns up and then darkens,

and is then no more.

That is you.

That will always be you as I age

and grow

and greet each day with a smile or

contempt.

The truth of you will never change

even if I change.

And my world changes.

Even when I cast him out or try to,

and my pen is out of ink,

(tired little pen)

and my tiny poetry world explodes

and bleeds words all over

there will always be a reason,

and

you will always be

hidden behind the font.