O, I have known your face.
My soul burns familiar with your soul.
But I have not met you.
Perhaps the wind sung me your name,
From the summer window, as I was rocked to sleep.
Or your smile was etched in the stone,
I skipped over the lake, your voice the splash,
Gentle and deep.
Were your eyes the fabric of my best dress?
As faded and blue?
Were you in every constellation of stars,
Your skin as glassy as the morning grass dew?
O, was every cloud and every moon,
preparing me for the day,
that I would meet you?
About the Creator
Bella Nerina
Australian. Writer.
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