Such as I have

Thoughts of you,
a splatter pattern of memory
from which a man will someday
solve the mystery of my nostalgia.

The mercury tears, after all,
are but cut-time mirrors of mine,
and the reflection stretches infinite
until it pools in mid air and drops.

Those eyes are silver domes,
and of the key I feign possession
because I dare not admit
how foreign is your mind to me.

Please understand, keeper,
that love could never be my gift,
never having had it myself;
I therefore offer thought as the widow's copper.