Loneliness

It is not oppressive; this loneliness,
I have an imaginary friend; a reflection
in streaming melancholy. I do not really
understand her, but I call her Madame;
wisps of smoke fly about her, hydrangea
blue, she has an inexplicable broken air of
an entombed muse, the sort poets seek
to lose and gain. She floats in dark azure,
dotting the thick veils of sunlight,
she slips, trips, tarries, parries,
accompanies me everywhere; both of us
meandering to nothing in a turbulent maze
like inevitable failures, when I look away
it seems she has sliced me open; misspent
life dying within. I get rid of her on a sun-baked
green-field, my fingers reeking of roses,
knees sore with chasing infatuation, twilight
carries me home in sooty arms, she waits for me
naked on bed, so cold looking, sin-stained,
vacant eyes; she cannot comfort me.
I am almost surprised she is still there;
my reflection.