I believed in what she could be.
I did it so much that she went a
Different way. Maybe away from herself.
Away from the way I apprehended her.
I idealised her, futurised her so much that
I couldn’t remember who she was,
And I realised that I hadn’t known her at all.
When she sat in front of me,
The empty bottle caressing her mouth,
I saw an image of her in my head.
Yet smiled at her, imagined her elsewhere,
Differently. She became invisible and I
Became heartless. Our narrative was cut in half.
I adored a face that I could never touch.
Cheeks that weren’t real. Cold skin. Lips without a voice.
And when her fingers landed on my shoulder
I heard the gavel in my head. What had I
Done to this woman? The surreal shades
Would never surrender. And I would never
Be interested or courageous enough to shred the
Images that weren’t there and commit to her.
“Clothilde Beer” by Hans Makart (1840-1884)
Croque-Melpomene 