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 dazzlement?

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.

Offor_Circe

“Circe” by Beatrice Offor (1864-1920)

 

 

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