Keshia Sophia Roelofs
They say they can see you,
in the slightest movement of my body,
the depths of my hazel eyes.
I see you more.
I see your tenderness
in the brush strokes of a landscape,
adorned in a wooden frame.
I see your acuity
in the detailed drawings of flowers,
splashed across dusty pages.
I see your affection,
in the tattered wool of a handmade teddy.
I see your artistry
in a sketched wren's wing,
its colours dulled by time.
I see your fragility
in handwritten notes,
of nature stories and remaining days.
But it is your soul that joins to mine,
in forgotten poetry
only I can understand.
In this I hear your voice to only me,
your precious pencraft guiding,
showing me the way.
Our secret language,
our lasting words wrapped in unison.
I write for only you and you wrote back.
But most of all I see your face,
not in photographs concealed
in boxes of cherished memories,
but shrouded in my heart,
an angel of my own.
Our memories in the painted petal of a flower.