You could never

Could you pretend for a moment I am not 
a godless heathen or
words not precious enough to speak,
your mother’s least-holy cross,
the pull-out couch the babysitter
fell asleep on

blackjack played for secrets,
friendship bracelet tossed in the campfire,
dust on a piano,
an empty bookcase,
dog hair on your silk shirt

the fired nanny,
house sitter who quit the Thursday you left,
your aunt’s mistranslated tattoo,
Coca-Cola poured in a wine glass,
stack of unread tomes on the vanity

a confidant contradiction,
Thai tea stain on your favorite jacket,
sweater worn in 90-degree weather,
dry-eyed at a funeral,
coven meeting in April,
sleeping in chemistry class?

But you could never
and instead
brush me like dust from your shoulder —
I am always two steps behind,

it is never far enough.