Young Writers Society

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.