Version II

Gasping as your form comes into sight,
I hold the smile until I leave the room
then break, a burnt-out matchstick, black and spent,

my head remembering all the hours I spent
in trying to beguile you. “Out of sight
and out of mind”, my mother said. No room

for sentiment. I tried to give you room
to contemplate what happy times we spent
together, but they faded from your sight.

My eyesight falters, give me room, I’m spent.


Version I

Slipping delicately out of sight,
I hold the smile until I leave the room
then crumple as a tissue, damp and spent,

my thoughts regurgitating all the hours I spent
in trying to console you. “Out of sight
and out of mind”, my mother said. No room

for sentiment, emotions; “Give him room
to hang himself. Just let him think of all time he spent
fulfilling his own dreams while you were not in sight.”

As I catch sight of you, the room revolves, composure spent.