unmet, yet

It’s not her smile,
But the curious, little wrinkle
Of it.
Not her elegant hands, but the way she
Moves them.
Not her eyes, but how open
They are
To all sorts of things. It’s the
Things I see when I watch her
When she’s not seeing
Me.
The way she brushes the bangs
Of hair from her eyes. The way she bends
girlishly to fix the heel
Of her shoe.
The way she sees, watches,
Smiles at those
Who need to be smiled at.
She moves with a
Particular grace,
Of course,
And when she stumbles in any manner of ways,
Because she does,
That too,
She laughs at herself.
It’s not the way she writes, but
The way her mind works. The words,
The rhythm,
The pauses,
The climaxes.
The securities
And insecurities.
It’s not the view when she’s on top,
But the abandon and absolute, complete
Nakedness, there, without
A shred of abashedness.
A total
Surrender.
But not, too, also,
At the very
same time.
Honesty.
And
Truth.
Offered.
Given.
And when I finally meet her
she will say, perfectly, with a knowing smile:
“What took you so long?”