An Ode

If you could see the path in its entirety, if you knew the broken stones upon which you would stumble, if you felt the shade you rest under, if you sensed the dark promise at its end - would you still walk it? Would you still say yes?

I whispered in your ear last night; the words were intimate and animate portraits of my state of mind, a view through the looking glass; did you see much of yourself in me? Did you think my words might be your own but for the distance of souls?

She is - Liquid sorrow trickled on asphalt memories and shattered upon flawless dreams
She is - Stone cold steel, a hollow vessel filled with shades of shadow
She is - Wilted white roses on the peeling windowpane captured in elapsed time
She is - An elusive tangibility forlorn and forfeit, remorse in repose
She is - Soft shallow silences of letters never written and things best left unsaid.
And I can't even see but I can see you, I can't focus. Yet one glimpse of you captures all my senses. Remind me why we do this? Why I do this to myself every day? We wonder, I wonder . . . Senseless and numb. To never breathe with you would be such a terrible waste of what I thought was untainted perfectionism.