the title isn’t a title but rather a description, and i honestly have no idea what any of this means.
there is a dress i have made to hide my flaws
and faults, full of colors on which
i’ve learned not to rely. i have felt your fingers
brush its pattern with a patter of distaste,
a drum i cannot feel across my waist
even though your arm is tightened softly.
i never claimed to be a perfect person
with perfect pieces all tactfully
put in place. i am a mismatched
attempt at pouring myself into a
stitched mess of more than pure fabric
i never claimed enough creativity
to turn this into something i’d call art,
though i can still dance for two, if you’d let me-
but i’d rather love to join you where you are.
there is a dress of darker hues,
grays that shimmer, and black. i am
having it made, sophisticated
and safely wrought stitches. i do not
have time to teach myself, because you
barely left me with one hand on our clocks.
all that i’m using is borrowed from you, anyway.
i will wade into your proverbial styx
and learn, as i suspected, that
black silk does not grant but rather
steals the gift of sight. but if i imagine
your arms guiding me from the cold,
and saving me from the light, i think
you’d come. to feel you lovingly caressing
all my well worked flaws,
not all would be for naught.