Indirectly

It took an afterthought to realize
I was the graffiti of your past,
a secret alibi tattooed in places
only the lucky get to see.

I posted a declaration on your door,
made it public, without the intention
of starting a cult. But here we are,
throwing the rotten fruit away
and saving the ripe ones for worship.

I wrote my name on the back
of your shoulder while you
were sleeping. We had fruit
and conversation for breakfast.
"These are the times that try
men's souls," you said, spurting juice,
and for a second I forget who said
those words before you did.

Instead of smiling, I remembered
my role, and left the words for you
to imagine, like the etchings barely
painted over, a trace of an idea covered
by others, an afterthought for sure.