I Am Your Shadow
I can never be as large as you. I leak
out from your heels; I’m not content
being your leftovers as you walk the
outdoors. When the sun sets to stare
at your face, I reach away from you,
sometimes stretching as far as two
blocks of pavement back, but I’m
always stuck in your shoes and when
the sun gets tired of you, I escape into
the darkest part of the night. But without
light and without you, I am just another
empty stretch of black air underneath
a billion novas—nothing distinguishes
between me and measureless darkness.
Some days, new light distorts me.
I’m happy when I don’t look anything
like you, rather be a blotch, an ink spill,
but still you chose where I go because
I follow you. When you pass different
faces, I dream of being their shadows.
Maybe I could be the puff of smoke
leaving the smoker’s hack? Or, I could
trace the lines of a wavy blond model
stretching her long legs with golden
pumps. Some days, I want to be the
stamp of a building, restricting sun
from a patch of asphalt. What if I cloaked
chatter over lemonade and sandwiches
from 12:00pm fire rays under a parasol?
