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
Why do I care then if my presence makes
Why do I care that I see a false front behind
a hope that is slowly slipping away.
Perhaps I care too much
who didn’t ask me to,
to see her sad eyes,
where a smile truly never
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
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