already your face has become blurred.

a static image, faltering in my minds eye.

even as i write this, the shape of your mouth

is fading from my mind.



but your eyes remain clear, intact.

dark green circling a jagged brown.

reminding me of quiet forests

in foreign mountains,

the sound of twigs breaking underfoot,

streams trickling over heavy grey rocks.



knowing you for two hours

on a grey train speeding

through burnt italian countryside,

the hills rolling out like waves

towards a dying sun

that bathed the homeward journey in gold,

might not seem like an encounter

worth holding on to, worth

writing poetry about.



but i have never felt more

  Perfect

as when you looked at me,

with an ochre halo of light

from the tuscan sun

shining behind your head

and the petal soft feel of your lips

burning against my mouth,

and told me i was beautiful.