Detroit, 1932

By Kate Healey

Posted on

There is a profound depth to you,
your irises ebb out towards me,
from above those arrow head cheekbones,
sublime in their listlessness,
infinitely vast and achingly familiar.

Swaddling my head,
like smoke levitating against the ceiling, is your voice.
A voice like bourbon,
encompassing my ear drums.
Obliviously I gravitate towards you,
only to be disarmed and overwhelmed
by the visceral reaction I have to you,
and the fragility of our connection,
the absolute complementary juxtaposition we constantly demonstrate is aweinducing.

Formally I know nothing of you,
but I know your soul so well,
for it is a fragment of my own,
splintered from the the continuum of consciousness,
a relic from a past life that I am certain that we shared.

Kate Healey

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