Glass

I stare at the glaze of the train window, perceiving it as more of a faint mirror than portal. The reflection promotes me as the focal point within a glossy square, viewing myself as if an apparition. The person gazing back possesses the same intensity in his eyes, yet, behind them flickers trees and rivers; his irises illuminate with subconscious greens and blues. My hair is a hint of the sky and pickets dart across my mouth, my face swims through the countryside like a breath of wind.


My glasses showed me the words of a book. The night has grown and I have become lost in the coldness of such a large house; such high ceilings, which steal all the warmth and leave me with the heavy air. The logic dances across the pages until it blinds me and leaves my eyes dull and aching. Shutting this window of words, I remove my glasses and see her.
Had she been here all this time? I offend myself not to have appreciated a woman of such beauty and stared through her as if she was glass. She is a silk frame of gold, smiling with the heat of a swollen pain. A movement of flickering colours and letters that shall never remain tied to one definitive image or description. For a thousands years I could fling paint at a canvas to recreate her smile or scratch endless poetry to depict the magnificence of her eyes, yet none would justify. After these thousands of years I would be no closer to projecting this image of love than I am now.
Although my short-sightedness suspends my life in a blur – I can no longer read the spines of the books on my bookshelves – she swims against my skin in intense clarity. Without my glasses, perched upon my nose, the room shrinks to only us – shrinks to accommodate only her. A pulse of bliss flows through me as we electric kiss. I feel the warmth of closeness, as a sun rises in my world during the night. I am blind enough to see that this amazing woman is my world and everything else is merely a smudge that stopped existing after that kiss. My bed, my lamp, my books - all history, all literature, all art, all language has become irrelevant to my world and are now the possessions of others in their own worlds.

I kiss her again, my One, my World, and the electric heat buzzes through us again. The only true poetry I recite to her is within a complete silence and is without words; only the touch of skin - a whisper of lightning.