I look at you the way one might
look at the stars, or a sunset.
But would you know?
For I shall spend hours grazing each delicate blade of grass
with gentle finger tips, learning each blades name and soaking
in the smell of the morning, tasting the dew with my toes.
And I will do my best
to remember the fresh fields, the same as I may wish to plant
the picture of your face into my mind.
Numerous letters to you are created in the depths of
my head, ones never to be delivered by tounge,
but instead tossed away and forgotten as days pass on
and the time I spend in these grassy patches multiply.
With curious eyes I
inspect your fragile frame decorated with wounds
created by the cruel part of the world.
I long for the time in this busy life, where I am able to memorize
your face and figure the same way I have memorized the grass.