If I was a blind old woman
or a sculptress caked in clay
I'd trickle my weathered fingertips
over your cheekbones like rain

Trace that scar from long ago
follow the beaten track
my eyes have wandered a million times
like a favourite paperback

If I was  a travelling artist
paintbrush aching to echo your face
on the empty strip of a canvas
your eyes too blue to leave any space

I'd paint in glorious yellow
those secret acts of kindness
your heart uncontrollably glows
that cool exterior just a pretence

Just the same stumbling tone
that falters as you masquerade
as just my friend, so well I know
that devotion you shine down on my face

If I was the woman I want to be
I'd twist these words in ink round your wrists
but I am just a helpless writer
and you are too precious to risk