Good Life

The Eye

A tarnished, bronze casing,

an oval mould,

a dainty string,

tightened to hold

the miniature

looking glass into

everything you (we) are.





My thumb

flicking the clasp

to the softened inward spaces

containing

what you gave to me

on that final day.





Clutching the pocketed trinket,

turning to my right,

children, like us.

Kissing her cheek, he smiles,

she giggles.





Your only kiss,

forever entombed in my memory.

Your lips touching not mine,

but a minuscule,

immaculate,

paper circle,

barely covering your fingertip.





You stare

into the irreplaceable keepsake,

placing the pupil

in the soft, opened center.





Leaving for the yellow bus,

turning to my left,

your hand resting on my shoulder.

Tears trickling,

time unhinging.





Opening the eye,

awakening it for the first time,

you place your hand

and the eye in mine,

quivering

with such sweet innocent sorrow.





I stare into the white on bronze,

searching for your remnants.

The eye,

holding them in a white realm,

that was, after all,

only ours.

  Comments