Roger Singer

Without

I am folded, pressed into corners,
neatly stacked in the suitcase of her
thoughts.
My words are like letters, spelling me out,
signing with care who I am;
exposed as if naked.
The painting of me crackles, my colors
once passionate red have drained to
the gray of time.
Her fear, the wall of her heart,
profited in alone, welcoming the without
others sharply feel as an end.
I see her walking in the city,
content in her without.

{Poem by Roger Singer}