trained eyes
Under my fingertips,
your damage felt
so weathered-smooth
though my chest absorbs
your tremors still.
Within my gaze,
it's, all of it, beauty,
deep-carved with precision
disguised as haphazardness.
Daubs of color, splattered
or mathematically placed --
either way, art.
Depth perception deceived me.
You had pulled away
much farther in a second
than I could follow in a lifetime
but I still felt your breath,
warm against my hair
and I still whirl to confront ghosts.
What made me imagine
I could gather again
the children of Babylon?
Only you know how,
know that tears have the same
accent in every language.
Yes, the division of you
is common sense only to
one splintered soul.
Still, I wear the scarf of your breath
nearer, always, than you'll ever truly be,
and look for watercolor
in disconsolate eyes,
traces of grease paint
near the line of your hair
where my hands plead
at your temple,
afraid they'll find
a masterpiece become creator.
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written works © April Palleria, 2002