The other day I caught myself staring at your image,

Embedded in the cliff-side pools,

Surrounded by flowers and foliage,

Miles away from you.

 

Your skin porcelain,

Flaws hidden,

Eyes clement,

You didn't even seem human.

 

And maybe you weren't.

You were perhaps just a concept,

A concoction of evanescing pigments,

Who swam away, leaving behind no remnants.

 

When I thought about crossing endless hill ranges,

And scooting past humble cottages,

To see you stand in your favourite spot, unfazed, indifferent-

It just didn't seem worth it.

 

I can still feel the creases on your palms; 

I can still feel your fingers brush against the grass;

I can still see you sway with the wind;

I can still see you paint butterfly wings.

 

But here's the thing-

It's the image of perfection that's thrilling;

The thought of doing something grandiose that's rousing;

The realization of a dreamland that's inviting.

 

I don't want to stray further away from my head,

Even if I come to a dead-end.

I'm content with catching fleeting glances of your images till they disfigure

On the surface of these strange waters.