My dear, I have become an expert on you.
The survival of my love requires new skin
to hold the pigments of you,
a mechanism in your design:
one that absorbs your light
and then reflects it back out,
steeped in all your colors.
Chameleon—
study in your iridescence,

if only to animate your face in mine,
that singular expression.
I’ve assembled it a hundred times
on features that do not belong to you
but ache to see you,
speak to you,
know you—

if only to replicate your cadence
and hear you voice the words
that used to delight us both;
to recall the scenes of your life
as though I’d lived them,
and encode them alongside
my most precious memories,
safekeeping
for the reunion
that will only exist in a daydream.

Come visit and tell me
I have learned you well enough.
I will tell you
that second to the longing for you,
my greatest happiness
is now only your imitation.

– Lola DeFever