Literary Fiction (I wrote this in London and ran this post once before but wanted to re-run it.)

I SEE YOUR FACE

painted by sunsets and shadowed by ghosts in the mindset. I hang your silhouette, an illumination of a lantern near the bleed of a cut in my heart. I touch you; the skin on my finger burrowed in the bliss of your kiss. I wait on tiptoe, reluctant for this loving moment missed. I see at once if something is wrong…I ask you about a scar from a mark that stayed too long…or perhaps of how your face beautiful in the morning light…would trace a blight that settles tenderly on the tip of a lip. You say it’s nothing…why am I so moved by a change in something of an expression…in anticipation of a haphazard arrangement so annoyed if I see your sideburns trimmed in a way to turn a destiny true, in a way that simply does not suit the majestic you. Perhaps it’s because I want your face chiselled awhile from its furrowed brows to a handsome smile…sculptured in my memory where youth holds on to its shaky, mirrored fantasy. - by susan abraham -