Someone asked me once what you looked like;
I couldn’t draw a picture, or write a poem, or take a photo
and fully answer that question for them.
In this I tried to think, how do you explain the beauty
when stars pass through the sky and fade –
jumping just for the thrill of it
that layer of clouds even when there are no clouds in the sky –
like cotton floating too high
guiding your hand through waves of wind –
driving too fast on the highway
warm sun beating down on paled skin –
taking a breath of fresh air for the first time in too long
spotting a singular silhouette against the backdrop of deep city night --
a faceless shadow with a story to be told
thick bountiful snow for the first time all year --
glittering and untarnished by the weight of life
the vast unwavering warmth the first time you realize that
you’ve come home, finally.
How do you explain with the few words we’re given
all those things?
That’s the same, you see, if I tried to explain
the radiating compassion in your smile, in your eyes
the memories stored like a scrapbook, of a woman whose
smile takes up her whole face, whose heart reaches out to every person she meets
the warmth of hand against skin, cradling the saddest of souls against a warm heart
murmuring after a long time searching, “you are loved, you belong,”
and so the only response I could think of spilled tenderly from my lips
fingers clenched around the remnant of you, so far away from me now,
“She looks like love.”

Ly Hansen

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