There
       

Snapped string,
pearls scattered.

For her, each
synapse is a pearl,

unstrung. Always
surprised, she's

happy as if
I arrived in a blink—a moment

lapsed, finding the lost
bead of my story newly

spun, an orient
orb from the ocean floor. I kiss

her cheek, touch
her hair, so

ghostly it lights
the darkened room. When

I leave, she'll forget
I was ever there.

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Copyright © 2018 Beth Copeland All rights reserved
from Blue Honey
Broadkill River Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission