Betrayed By A Gift Made of Gauze

Gauze sleeves.
White as light.
Worn after a night
of not so good dreams.
Took so little effort to sweep me away.
If only it were not so.
But this carefully quiet waif
captured my heart so quickly. Completely.
Her full grown childlike hands
flutter by, moth-like, drawn to a flame.
Attached to the wisdom of the ancients,
and the beauty of marble statues from the seven hills.
So alluring. I was smitten. Instantly. Completely.
My eyes searched for curves under her blouse
and found, smoky blue eyes. Hair colored like late harvest fields.
Unadorned with jewels.
It seemed her beauty eluded her.
She might have been, in another time,
a castle bound maiden or dancer.
It was clear she saw herself as
just THAT gardener’s daughter.
“Life never seems to work right,” she muttered to herself,
and anyone or no one at all.
She acted more bothered than angry.
I doubted true anger had ever visited her up close.
Her fragile nature never withstood
such an internal storm.
Lightning came at the flash of a razor, the flick of a bic.
To love her I gave her
the gift of a frock
made of gauze.

The Emotional Orphan /Jack Varnell
***my original post***

About The Emotional Orphan

I am a museum of past affection. A wax museum in the sun.
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