I want to revise her
It’s because of her me-ness
Her thinking her less than what she is
Me thinking me more
We are both wrong
and mired by shadows
Halfway through the novel I still can’t see her hands
or face really
never the eyes
they are unoccupied and waiting
she becomes even less visible
I become more
Until finally we turn in on ourselves
Her fiction sifting through my non
Like the contents of an hourglass moving steadily beyond atmosphere