His Eidolon

By Kelly J. Sullivan

It wasn’t disconsolate solitude or suffering

That allowed him to revive me,

There was no loneliness or lingering pain

Present on my side of the table.

For I had amputated a virulent appendage

And remained perfectly fine.

It was burnt sienna irises

Boring through me like a lancet,

An electrifying brush against my shoulder

Like the hand of fate,

A smile enticing, inviting, encouraging

All somehow unintentional.

I hid nothing.

Flipping on the lights,

It is my habit to illuminate every corner.  

I elucidated my circumstances in life

And told of recently burning an empty edifice

And tossing the ashes into the wind.

He asked me about my writing

And immediately melted into a new preface,

A prelude, a preamble, a poem.

With engrossed inquisitiveness,

He engaged me in conversation

The ravishing perjurer.

After wine and appetizers,

He slinks away

Still wearing his beautiful mask.

He silently disconnects from me

Holding a withered limb

Tightly against his chest.

Again I am duped.

But look at me, I’m perfectly fine.

Years pass.

And he is still reserving two theater seats

So that the ghost of his wife

Can sit beside him.