How could I’ve forgiven myself,
amongst all the vibrant blossoms in the garden,
to have missed you,
so gentle and subtle in your paleness.
For the world’s beauty dwells in paleness, too.
Eternal beauty’s in subtleness and the muted,
In the restrained and the ashen.
It’s in the absent and the hinted.
And missing you would have been,
Like a kind and tender countenance, unseen,
A gentle caress, unnoticed,
A truthful whisper that was missed,
A never received blown kiss.