My Margot.

What a picture cannot capture,
a half-closed door,
a withheld sigh-
She doesn't speak she lingers,
She's the quiet before goodbye.

She lives in aftermath and wonder.
A pearl, born of sand and friction,
polished by sorrow, iridescent with love,
Her own wealth of contradiction.
​
Like a dream half-remembered,
Perfume lingering past the fade.
The hush before a kiss -
she lives in the after-ache.

Her heart will hang you in its hallway,
inadequately spaced,
My Margot cannot stay,
but she always leaves a trace.

She's the letters you don't dare to send,
And truths you dare not speak,
She's the moments before you lose control,
A cut glass of whisky,
Neat.