An Ode To The Face


When my heart was pierced through
by an airy sting, bittersweet,
from Cupid’s bow, I woke up with a jolt.
Beads of sweat on my skin
belied the cold darkness of the night.
I could not discern the room for a while,
everything seemed strange
until slow memories came back.
An intense longing left me overwhelmed
as I sat on my bed,
creased and crumpled, with stains all around,
engrossed in the sharp contours of her face,
painted vivid on my mind,
though who she was I could not tell,
as I had never seen the like of such
beauty and charm alive.
I could recall the details shown,
even the tiniest one, in an eerie dream,
like her nose was Grecian
and her eyelashes, lush and long
and neither thick nor too thin were her lips
but nothing she had beyond,
like a bold portrait on a page,

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