Aperture

I could pretend
we are not fractured,
still.
That gauzy memories
fade truth,
and dimness
is the same as
Grace.

I could pretend
my impression
is whole,
framed by
a manageable sorrow.
That my prism
cast true:
a collected, refracted light
against a sepia canvas.

I could pretend
wounds close,
time heals,
Phoenix rise from ash;
the effigy I hold
and behold
will still cradle
my soul.

                          ...or not.


For sometimes
you cast your stone,
shatter my image.
A violent lens
boring down on
smudged edges,
blended hues,
seeping
watercolor memories.

And I must look anew,
widen the fissure;
gape
at another
reflection
and wonder,
what is true?

I could pretend
yours was
the sharper eye;
your palette,
loud with vitality and
crisp borders:
the sole herald.

Yes, I could
pretend
dimness
is the same as
Grace.

                          ...or not.


For sometimes dimness
                                       is Grace.
                                                        Precisely.


Aperture - regulator, opening, hole; exposure of time.