Your Face

The first time,

nostalgia came over me;

like looking at a picture of myself

I had never seen.


I gazed, second person,

mute, hungry voyeur;

your suited and booted margins

pleasingly familiar.


Something sexy happened.


Your eyes spoke;

I could lip-read them.

Hush! this is the year of the tiger.

Let’s lunch forever.


Now, a visual condiment;

ferocious but pensive,

piquant, like ketchup

with an indefinite shelf life.

I love the aroma of old paper in second hand bookshops, the move of words on a page, gathering odd things like a jaybird, crisp blossoms, wooly socks, keeping organization with craftsmanship, the rush of film, and composing an infrequent culinary enjoyment for the individuals I adore.



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