the stray look is the sweetest,
the averment unknowingly
waited for, priceless.
it’s a gift for the millionth mirror-trip wond’ring
if the hair could stand up to scrutiny; worth it
are walks again and speaking swoon.
it is the breath that richens pale
marble cheeks a-flutter and gives
the veins a rosy tint;
the smell of bitter tea with hints
of wildwood orchids.
that you pray for someone’s heart, and feel
the inching rapt tenderness: treasure this
along with every red beat unaware,
’til inhaled that final drop of vagrant sight
and exhaled the empty air.
— A. P.