Of all your possessions, I was the least,
always the last to pass through your hands,
always left in benign neglect
like a cactus or an aloe vera plant, something
foolproof, an idiot's guide to loving by proxy,
a rock garden with only the wind to rake it,
the little stones rattling like bones,
left alone
in your attic room, the place you keep
what you don't need and won't
yet toss out.
I wait for you to see me, here, a
portrait hanging on your wall, my eyes follow
your every blessed move but
I'm stuck here in this frame, like a
gift your grandmother gave you, awkward,
doesn't fit your décor.
My arms open to you but you
walk right through, a glancing blow, a
sudden shift of perception, a catch of
freezing breath, chilling my lungs with
my transparency
to you, my goal, my delight, my empty
promise kept outside your door like
a dog patiently waiting for one touch to
loll in ecstasy at
your feet which rest on ground more
holy than the lighted sky, while I,
I am fit only to be tied up and put away
for possible future consumption