I needed you to be abstract
a concoction of double negatives
spilled on plots of graveyards without headstones
where I would sit to adore your memory
while listening to the ambient sounds
of lost souls regretting their choices

but you are simple to define
you are the weeping willow tree
in a artist’s discarded work
that was too mainstream
for the misogynistic art collectors
with eighteen year old kinks on the side

your challenges came with upside down answers
where my playing cards were matt black
and my tell was hidden in the trinkets
on my mothers shelves
protected by specks of poisonous dust
and my hard headed telekinesis.