All That's Left Are My Quilts

why do I still write about her?
she was beautiful
but greedy for reactions;
I am fluent in her cute cunning.
I need satiation and peace,
not ripping pain from a pseudo love. 

I still watch her from my bed
– and my head –
her ghost, smiling, 
regarding the few nights
with unforgiving eyes.

the multilayered consideration of quilts.
poems like this one are invitations 
across dry riverbeds,
stepping stones. 

maybe I am mad,
because she never loved me;
she loved the idea of a lamp
that turns on when you clap.

if you're reading this,
I miss you.
and will always love you.