my lost memoirs of you..

You know,
you are a fragrant description
of my tired eyes,
that you without fail,
succeed always,
in not being the person you are
while you sniff the air for assumptions,
fish the newspaper from beneath the carpet,
and sit quietly, unperturbed in the pillion seat,
singing by my ears.

no,
you are an entirely different someone when you write.
a bleeding truth,
a frozen rage,
some sweetly versed protests,
some ephemeral metaphors,
and longing
under a gallimaufry of names.
you are unheard of
in a tiny room in the back of your mind
with mirrors for walls.
oblivious,
intoxicated,
sorcerer,

a spinning dervish who
just touched me
and away he went
or perhaps
left a poetry tangled in my robe.