Perhaps-known
There are things forgotten, then unearthed,
things perhaps-known:
the maybe known,
the wind kissing your neck;
things you bump against and caress
in this orgy of sense and information.
I like to take these things,
these perhaps-knowns, these half-truths
and hazy memories,
gaze unflinchingly into their eyes,
kiss them deeply,
divine their essence
by inhaling spent breath.
To you, sweet nymph,
am I perhaps-known?
Do you glimpse me
from the corner of one mythic eye
and realize it was only a flower
twined into your hair?
Sadly, love,
you have become mist.
If absence makes the heart grow fonder,
it make the mind grow faint.
Sadly, love,
I cannot recall the sweetness of a kiss.
And when my hands arc through the air,
they no longer trace your curves.
You are a thing perhaps-known,
that has become a mystery,
then a dream, a moment,
then forgotten.