I was dreaming
when you appeared
drawn in by your eyes
they were beautiful enough, but
their message lay behind me
my friend had your kind of face
I loved him, but he hides
since his collapse,
so when I see your face
I’m drawn, not
by its beauty
but by guilt, buried
and burgeoning and
beguiling a longing
to salve, to correct.
I dream of your face
and hunger for the beauty
of a second living
but your soul
although beautiful
is not that one,
so re-life
falls short
always
even though
your eyes
are beautiful
just the same.