I could have quietly shed my clothes
into a cotton puddle, slipped into
an antique royal wedding gown,
a vacationing autumn queen.
Or maybe just a tiara and heavy,
baubled necklace, suitable garb
for a castle mistress -- the role
I'm wont to wear. She still strokes
the ceramic tile walls, slips between
smooth, starched sheets, maybe unseen
but never, ever serene. Some rooms
hold you, like a lover who sees you
with his eyes closed long after
he tells himself you're gone.
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