At times
when I witness
that you are not
so much yourself,
your mundane face
brings back in me
a poorly-saturated
still image
and all I want
to do is
bring back the color,
only I step back
in hesitation
for mine
has never been
any brighter
YOU ARE READING
Albeit flawed,
PoesíaI was basking under the sun-the waves muffle the sound of my breathing; and I bury myself with cautionary confidence in the sand and with it the memory of your four faces. How can something lethal be life-restorative?
