invention

i did not invent you, only
listened as you spoke, every
soft word escaping into
the air like a kiss goodbye
from a stranger, lips embracing
like two lover on their
way back from nowhere saying
goodbye in the sun.

i could hear you beneath
every building, heart beat
and breath broke on every city
step. i sat by your side in
the evenings and waited for
something like love to fall into
place, but all i could see
were couples on park benches,
all eyes and lips and hands.

there were times when i would
imagine your eyes and lips and
hands in mine, would conjure
your image and place it in
the back of my mind, but i did
not invent you, just the way your
hand fit perfectly in my own
and how your delicate bones would
bend and fold against my body.

i listen sometimes on city
streets and think i can hear
your voice, but it's always just
some sad imitation of the way
your mouth would grasp the
words around it and hold them
there until they were gritty,
ground up like morning coffee,
a fabrication brought on by the
wind and made worse by my aching
heart.

but i did not invent you, you
only invented me.