it’s the
microcontractions
in the iris
the eyes aren’t
a window to the soul
they are simply
the key to each
an every thought

you can see
the shifting spectrum
of emotion
the crackle as
a spark forms
the soft care
the ferocious heat
be it passion
or furious rage

or watch the embers
where loved burned
so brightly you could
lose yourself in the
deep brown or sheer emerald
only to see it flare
when the phone beeps
and die when it finds you

i see more in a glance
than most pick up
after years of study
i can see the future
in those contractions
the distractions
days before the last
timbers tumble the
boredom encroaching
letting me know i need
to beat feet before
i overstay my welcome

and then i cannot stop
seeing the last look
the cobweb laden gallery
in the hollow cathedral
to love’s listless farewell
sometimes chilled deep
with winter’s disdain
and othertimes so tenderly
sad it is excruciating
yet i stand staring in
the long dark passages
where dreamdander frays
i can feel her lips
taste her breath knowing
this is an echo of a
flickering figment i can
never hope to feel again

wait,
what was the question, again?