I don’t see her face in the clouds as often as I used to,
time having cleansed my senses to allow me to see the broader spectrum, when
back then I was nearly blind, although on occasions, after a long night tossing
and turning or thick with the visions of vibrant dreams, I see her face,
floating aloft, wishful thinking inspired by wish-filled dreams, sometimes,
seeing only bits and pieces, her hair on the head of a person I see on the train,
her eyes peering over a book in the local library, though I have set to see a
pair of lips like hers, as potent and promising, an odd slant as if inviting a kiss,
and at these times I sometimes see my own reflection in the glass, a lost soul desperate
to find a way back to what once was.
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