But no-one ever wrote a thing, for you,
Let you carry them on a flight of music:
Ride the wings on your shoulders, your widened back
A perfect kite. Nobody cared to sing
For those closed lips, or play a doleful lute
For a bowl of your last, deep, and untouched, wine:
Nobody took a drop of cyan ink
To trace across your wrist’s calligraphy.
Nobody ever did prop up their easel,
Bid you sit – take in your silhouette,
Recast your features, trace your shaded thoughts
And resting shapes – or even let the spill
Of watercolours whiten out your eyes.