Plath Would Say I Made You Up

I sat on the couch and watched you close
the door to your tiny bedroom
and then I listened to you call the boy
who interested you more than I did.
(Geography or age or body type.

I never knew what was the difference
between us. I stared at photos of him
trying to understand.)

I buried you like a botanical bulb inside me
cultivating you until you were a bright, amazing vine
that bloomed around me, while I willed
myself into the unconscious limbo of sleep,
or not sleep -- I wanted you in my dreams, too.
Plath would say I made you up.

You were still there in the morning, in your bedroom.
Alone, which soothed me. Some.

There are some people I know
for whom the longing is the point.
I watched the shadows made by
your body along the bottom
of the door.