Words outlined a space,
almost erased, in the shape of her body.
Letters dangled—L, C, B, then Z, S, D—
showing where her ears might be.
Periods were only symbols of her eyes.
Time, like music, flowed
and shapes grew. Then ebbed.
Then staffs struggled to hold the dotted notes
of her form in empty longitude. Coves vanish,
harbors expand. Her beauty only
swells and too eager words
cannot plot her place on a chart.
I wake to the blank page
of empty sheets, scentless.
I wait—not patiently—for her
to travel home across
that flat, unfolded map.