Look At Me

If I could see what you see,
it would be just a memory of me;
ghostly visuals hidden in thinly
veiled chasms of shrieking whispers.
You see the far away cries,
if I see what you see.
And it is what it is,
to miss the glare of sunrise.

Derelict spaces inside your eyes
show abandoned, scorching reaches
and searing, aching longings once
belonging to vanity’s mirrors –
there’s no one wrapped around
our crimson talks, fingers touching
unfurled lips, or passion
etched onto the steely glass –
I see only me,
and it is what it is
to miss the explosions of sunset,

from our movements wetter
than oceans and in brilliant pain
from ecstasy’s bite marks – showered
by the moons and suns that pass on by,
gliding over the dark lake
calm and unwearied – and like us
she disappears until a new moon comes.
When I look into your eyes,
it seems so real –
that’s how deep my search,
and it is what it is
to only see the darkness.

I see you motionless in the doorway,
skin reflecting her face from
the window, and not in a dream
or unrealistic fantasy
read by a lamp that rejuvenates
tired paper.
If I could see what you see,
then I’d see me.
And it is what it is to have
our eyes opened once more.