I try to remember your face.
What made you smile.
What your last thoughts were before bed.
What dreams you had when you exited the house.
The embrace was too short-lived.
The hope had not endured.
The dissolution appeared too quickly.
Her knees an earthly disaster and she moved on.
Thinking about the human forms locked away behind glass.
In the forest where children dreamed and disappeared.
She envied all the colours and moments of perfection.
One world following another in one room houses and stories.
She wandered through dark spaces, where treasures lay.
The collector, observing the standstill of love.
With her hands on the apparition that no one could see but her.
And she cried, because she believed that there would always be glass in-between.
“Antigone” by Frederic Leighton, 1st Baron Leighton (1830-1896)
