Nympheas
I ask only for one touch,
one of your fingers laced in mine,
a simple brush of your chin against my cheek.
Monet’s eyes, in his age, grew dull and blind,
his paintings blurry and best enjoyed from afar.
I think of you, in the cold memory of a museum,
his floating lilies drowning in swirls of thick paint,
his eyes tired, his vision impaired, irreversible.
I always reach, I never see;
I am young, but my eyes are old and tired,
and my heart is old and tired,
and my skin longs to be touched.
Aching to be held, waiting to see,
I want to float,
I want to see the lilies clearly.
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