Mrs. Ramsay, Missus R
Found herself
In the aches and the pains
Of Manhood,
Skating down the Wrinkles
Of Thought
Floating on
Self-pity.

Where there was a window,
There was a gate—a gate
Leading to the beautiful and
The empty.
Where adoration lay
In the trembling heart of an artist,
Alongside worry
Over rotting walls of a greenhouse.

Mrs. Ramsay, Missus R
Found herself
Sitting on a nose held High
Supporting her
Whilst flaring its burning Nostrils
On those
Who opposed
It.

Being beautiful couldn’t be helped,
Neither could being lonely
A gaze of one so dependent
On being
Depended was Petrifying.
She dare not look into the mirror
For Fear
Of turning into stone.

Mrs. Ramsay, Missus R
Found herself
Stepping on the lips that
Only wanted
Her to say three words to
Assert that
It was
Loved.

A picture did she wish to be,
Since it lasted more than a Day.
A Day so ephemeral, so lasting—
In the past,
Where a child could hope for a lighthouse that
Didn’t Die
But she would, and so a picture would be lovely.

Mrs. Ramsay, Missus R
Found herself
In the hands of one
Who couldn’t
Let go of a part of himself
Holding her
Like a
Butterfly.

In the end, it was meant to be
That she would slip and he would fall,
That she would lose her title
So wrong
For her, for she had let go, she was
Neither Ramsay
Nor R
She was just—