Everything is on the surface, or just below, I can't go too deep, too far down the stairs. The room is small, with tables of all shapes and sizes, with framed pictures, of my Beloved, on tops of painted, or stained, or tiled wood. I smooth the cloth under faces, handsome, beautiful, loving. The patterns of fabric, woven like the stories I tell. I illustrate my room, my one and only room, with blankets stretched upon the floor.


I stretch upon the floor and look up at the lamp, of frosted glass the color of blush, my blush. The yellow casts a fire-like warmth across walls filled with paintings, drawings, of my Beloved.


I reach for a notebook, kept under my pillow, a large, chenille pillow with fringe and tassels, bleeding in oranges, gold and greens. I open my notebook and read poems, stories, notes, and sketches of my Beloved. I close my eyes and I view a slide show of images, lips, eyes, and manners, captured by my single reflex heart, preserved forever, under eye glass, my spy glass.


There are doors for every wall, and a story for every moment when I make a crossing, a dangerous crossing. They are heavy, oak doors with hard ware of my hard ware, that cannot be breached without my secret passwords, one different for every door. The leaded windows, locked and secure, no escape without my consent, no entry of cat burglars, or lovers, without my consent.


I cross to a table with many drawers, it is black with edges like waterfalls, and I trace the curve, as if it is My Beloved's cheek. I take the bronze handle and pull toward my center, and reach inside for buried treasure. My Beloved's treasure, that increases by the day, the hour, the empty minutes without him. I take a hinged box, of his treasure, his pictures and words. This box will never be full, it will grow in contents but not in size. This box of treasures, keeps precious thoughts, wishes and love inside.


I sit, legs folded, box resting in my lap. I stroke it's top, I know it's every grain of truth, patterned on wooden sides. I light a candle and speak words softly under breath. I speak of poems, past conversations, and I work my spell. I spell with words written by bare finger on the glass of framed picture of my Beloved. My reflection of me, next to his image, together at last, me and my Beloved.

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