Do her cheeks
flush at my
gaze? I doubt
it, but the
thought makes me
smile. I see
her there, appearing
dead in
her chair. She
is beautiful
like a reflection;
untouchable and
cold.

She lives in her
head, hidden in
the city of her
mind, but the
temple of her
body is silent
like a midnight
that time left
behind.

Her mouth
is a quiet
frown, not
often disturbed
in the effort
of speech.
But can I imagine
the splendor
of her thoughts?
The works of her
hand? I doubt
that I can,
and indeed, I
doubt that I will.

AcB 11.22.99