Art Gephyr

The Meeting

Why do you come to me now,
brimming with thoughts of true love
as if cupid's arrows rained down
from a cloud in the sky up above?

Do the eyes not see the taut lips,
that hang crooked, tattered and stray,
pitted with harsh lines of time,
and grooves over freckles that play?

But the ears hear tricks that deceive
with the cadence of melodies pure
that is sung by a voice soft and smooth
on the nights that end with no cure.

The mind weaves fantasies false,
and you see only hope and desire,
the suspension of all your beliefs
to the things which will never transpire.

Why do you come to me now
that my heart had confessed to another?
You are nothing but stranger to me
though you move with the dance of a lover.

Your gaze too deep to be held,
but I find that I cannot resist
to steal glimpses of you time to time,
to be met with a smile that persists.

But your sadness will rise once again
and I know you will one day react.
The games that we play will all burst
and feelings now stretched will retract.

The distance between us so vast
and the time left together so fleeting,
then why do I still long for more
and wait for another brief meeting?