I find myself missing the mattress indentations where the girl used to sleep, wondering where she is in a world confounded by opportunity and stars that shine brighter than me; maybe not brighter, but more prolific; hanging in the muddled sky, ornamenting her desire, caught up in tinsel and flare.
Quite possibly my own decorations have aged decades in a matter of years, the things I hang from myself like old doorknobs, or window panes muffled by the morning fog or fleeting rain that drops when the nights seem oh so long.
What if I dressed in different colors?
Threw some green over me, some reds to bring the boldness out of my black hair, like the sweater she gave me once, wrinkled now, in the closet, cashmere foldings that I try on at times but never wear in public. My unworn sweater burns for her eyes only, and I find it difficult to believe that a random person would understand the sentiment behind the stitching.
So there it drapes, hanger appeal, controversial coloring for my feelings deep.