Energies of lesser or greater densities
deny the drifting worlds between her and I,
compounding supereons of my self
and similar dimensions
to rake at the spaces she'd left behind
when she was still tangible enough
to stir them with her intrinsically lucid design,
where a brush of her bristled excitement
suffused passion through a moldering sense of self
and spread the dye over everything in time.
I felt a confidence from the outflow of her being,
dexterous and firm from the start,
the progression that mortal pools would make
toward faded permeation
could not dissuade her from seeking out the best in me.
Somehow I fail to see why.
Perhaps I've been mindless to her rapt artistry,
smoothed as I am into warm depressions
where palms once fatigued her canvas
in their fevering attempts
to unearth and inspire me.
Lately though I've feared
that the richness of her radiance
was altogether imagined by wistful perception,
that the sway of her bold strokes,
her starlit visions burning in my fiber,
had settled on a medium
too dense to appreciate all that she'd composed.
Resigned as I am to this state,
the light of her labor and love
eludes me in the stillness of its completion.