Just in Form

My eyes linger a little too long,

as they dilate to drink her in.

Would I cut them out,

I would still remember her perfectly,

every line, every curve, every niche,

the photons press against her flesh

to bounce off to land upon my own.

But I am not her demon,

I am not her love,

I am nothing.

I will be forgotten

once my tribute passes from me

to her.

Why do I care then if my presence makes

an impression?

Why do I care that I see a false front behind

a hope that is slowly slipping away.

Perhaps I care too much

about everyone.

Even her,

who didn’t ask me to,

to see her sad eyes,

where a smile truly never

crept in.

The sensitive child of desolation

lends me my third eye

into her soul.

I need to learn to ignore it

for it never does anyone

any good.

More damages to be had

If my heart should linger

So I will only think of her in form,

as lines, and curves in space, to admire

and to put the order of

the world in its rightful place.

By Philip Wardlow 2012