Details

they say the devil is in the details 

and I have found her there—

buried deep in to-dos and bills 

and old holiday cards. 

you’re in there somewhere, too,

beneath the crumbled sheets and dust. 

you’ve tucked your heart away—taxidermy

safe from light and touch, preserved

in long-unopened journals

piled high on the shelf, 

in love letters to those who only visit in dreams,

in songs you wrote and never sang. 

those words whispered to parallel places, 

where you imagine coffee just as hot, 

the pastries maybe even sweeter, 

the sex a jolt that kicks you back

to summer, to youth, when you were free 

to explore, to listen— 

still figuring it all out,

then, still busy 

painting your dreams 

in vivid strokes, writ large, 

exposed.