Vain

her eyes, blue diamonds lost in the rubble of time

trace my every move. familiar, they seem.

ancient relics of someone beyond my grasp,

dodging my aching hands. always just out of reach.

 

her laugh is young, full, and sweet.

honeysuckle on my fingers under setting suns on the swings,

or chocolate syrup pooling 

beneath a whirlpool of milk. closer now,

 

I am coming apart. my mind turns stale

with the decaying memories of who she

used to be. or, rather, who I used to be. 

her ruddy, rounded cheeks are not so foreign as before.

 

no, I see - they were mine this whole time.

the picture sits softly in the palm of my hand,

fingers tracing her lovely smile. such a shame to know

“lovely” and “lonely” are not so unlike after all.

 

my own heart, borne of fire and stone

longs to beat with the blood of love

just one more time. so long it has seemed

the world only turns to make a fool out of me.

 

but her very existence proves this wrong.

brown freckles dotting every pore, unseemly hair

crowning frizz and youth. suddenly, her skin is glossy - 

the paper diminishes in my hand. ink pours into space

 

as this leaky faucet screams. who am I to deny

this Wonder her far-fetched dreams? to stand, idle,

taking in water and wretched, unsung days. 

as the image comes apart, so I come together.

 

whisking away thoughts of godlessness and anger,

soothing these flares of sentiment with a resolve to do more:

her feet, clumsy and large, will learn to dance again.

her lips, lean and pink, will learn to part again.

 

and her heart, open and young, will learn to love again.

 

because if not for her - if not for me - this picture tears in vain.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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