March 27, 2016
I saw you glance.
My eyes met yours
in innocent recognition, though I believed only my own.
To you, I was any other.
The light fell gently and slowed all movement.
Candle flames burnt yellow
and in their most heated, blue.
The voices of those celebrating gayly,
their words were indistinguishable to me.
I relied on sight, on body language, on facial expression.
Standing so far across the marbled floor,
the women in multicolored dressings looked to me as butterflies,
and men as black or navy fence posts wearing hair coiffed like the tines of a fork, slick as silver.
The butterflies each found preferred fence posts upon which to light.
All creature behavior
Wind driven ivy streamers
dancing in front of lights,
became bats skimming my shoulders.
I thought of disappearing through the calling doors.
I was a white statue against a white washed wall.
With gracious smiles,
with small talk given,
I heard not a sound from you.
The doors did reach to me,
offering a simple escape.
Lips formed words,
and I watched you kiss many a cheek.
As yet to you, I was not present.
Fantasies are dreams.
Dreams are the mind’s art expressed,
formed with desperate wishes and often with stifling worry.
The dream of eye connection, with you,
became a real event.
A dream come true seems the purest form of art.
~ mary jane goodman