empty pages need to be filled

as her mind must wander,

must record the timed passages of attention,

must wonder at where she has been –

winded, night-filled and

with that glitter and sand

sifting from her hair

empty pages need to be filled as

the eyelash of memory dusts against her waking thoughts

a hand at the back of her neck

green muted lights like heartbeats

birds, a dance is what he held her to

and the surf

and music

a hand at the depression of her of her waist

he never has left her without question

without want

without his sweetness building to something bitter in her mouth

her memory

and muse

her openness, then, makes of her a vessel –

willing, wounded and hungry

full of misguided hope she washes the glittersand down the kitchen sink and

starts, this again, to build lemon cake

it is her favorite

she will layer coconut, some sea salt and all her longing for the details of him

not her fiction

for the arrogant magic forever nagging her to find just the right words

to fill pages with something concrete

with discernible beginning and end

like the three cakes lined up

soldiering her warm wooden countertop

in the candlelight by which she prefers to bake

and read

and write

and dress

and bathe and

sleep to dream of him