His face fades before my very eyes
Fuzzier with every glance I steal
Slowly, he becomes a dim figurine
in a crowd of dim figurines
Relentlessly face-deprived

There must be a world, somewhere
In which I’m allowed to memorize each line on his face
Tracing it with my fingers
Like a blind person reading Braille

There must be an alternative dimension
In which I discover the nebulae in his eyes
I pay homage to the stars that died to create them
And awaken new stars in their place

How come I only ever see the blurred shapes?
I try to clutch onto his image
(I desperately try, I fail)
It’s like trying to clutch air
(oh, air, you despicable creature
you artificial safety blanket
how cunningly you wrap yourself around me
only to escape when I try to grasp;
how dare you taunt me so?)
- all I can do is grieve.

2.04.2021