I try to grasp your beloved face,
graphically placing it on the mind’s canvas,
filling the valleys with fuller’s earth and
chiseling the planes with a serpent’s tooth.
Devouring every detail with a feverish eye
to circumvent time’s mortal immortality.
But why do I bother with mortal flesh
precluding the wonders of life everlasting?
I love you. Simple. Your brow extends
to captivate the eyes in locked conflict, then laughs
to meet the corners of your mouth wandering about
in search of a smile.
Your arms encircle the wonder of meeting
life on certain terms, then range in motion to
include the All. A frantic mask we disengage
when discoveries make true a knowledge irredeemable.
But still I chase the memory of you
only minutes out the door. I cannot remember the face
of you. I know the strength, the laugh, the love
you reaped upon the wind to leave a mark on me.
I am forever different. But the other, the package
assembled to meet specific requirements for this
particular place, are as specious as memory and
eradicated by time
like a pen and ink drawing.
Photo by Jon Katz
One response to “The Illusion. . .”
email from Jane Mc. . . Love this piece Veronica…and how true it is! Our beloveds are simply who they are and it isn’t so much about appearance at all!