My mind never grew tired of her face.
The microscopic tenderness.
The affectionate warmth
That can be traced back to her mouth.
I want this face to never end, to
Never betray itself.
To never look away.
Would she have the same power
If she was a statue?
A painting?
Could she maintain my bedazzlement?
Or was it all coming from the same place?
Stone?
Colour?
Flesh?
She doesn’t say a word.
She doesn’t have to.
Sometimes it’s clear.
I’m sinking into her
And I realise that
Parchment,
Marble and
Her skin all
Speak the
Language of life.
“Circe” by Beatrice Offor (1864-1920)
Croque-Melpomene 