Where can I find the perfect expression
This pain in my throat –
It isn’t painted in anything External, It is here.
It is burning in a sacred place of Woe
Where the forms have no faces,
and I look for a sign,
a portrait that might heal the longing
Your scent still lingering has left.
But there is no perfection;
Just a mess of things:
Objects mirroring my humanity,
My futile searching.
Let me be at peace then
With the thought of your leaving,
only for a while.
Your return will be enamored
In all things,
And our souls will remembers why,
for a brief space in time,
They had no room to breathe.