With a wistful gaze
you wondered aloud about
how we are living out our movies,
wearing our masks,
following our scripts.
Wondered what your mother and father
and the rest of your team of angels
might be thinking of you,
your hair spiritedly disheveled —
a wild iris accented with streaks of gray —
I thrilled to take in your face,
suddenly realizing the splotches
on your cheeks weren’t bad makeup
but simply your ruddy flesh.
I got lost in your pouty baby lips
whose pink smudged past your cupid's bow
— not lipstick, mind you — just a natural blending.
I feasted on your two too cute buckteeth.
Your outer incisors curved to match the
bend off your bottom lip.
I drunk in your large eyes
as they peered off into the distance,
perhaps resting upon some spiritual plane,
and such assured, adept creases caressed them.
You transformed into some cherubic Hispanic
version of Marilyn Monroe-cum-Isabella Rossellini.
I, who had witnessed my body
dissolve into blisters over the years
and fought tooth and nail for a few more
in the vain hope of getting it back
to finally be able to sit at a table with you
over a cup of coffee
and share a slice of cake.