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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.