Just in Form

My eyes linger a little too long,
as they dilate to drink her in.

Would I cut them out,
I would still remember her perfectly,
every line, every curve, every niche,
the photons press against her flesh
to bounce off to land upon my own.

But I am not her demon,
I am not her love,
I am nothing

I will be forgotten
once my tribute passes from me
to her.

Why do I care then if my presence makes
an impression?
Why do I care that I see a false front behind
a hope that is slowly slipping away?

Perhaps I care too much
about everyone.

Even her,
who didn’t ask me to,
to see her sad eyes,
where a smile truly never
crept in.

The sensitive child of desolation
lends me my third eye
into her soul.

I need to learn to ignore it
for it never does anyone
any good.

More damages to be had
If my heart should linger

So I will only think of her in form,
as lines, and curves in space, to admire
and to put the order of
the world in its rightful place.