The Last Time I Saw Your Face



The last time I saw your face, 
I couldn’t see it all. 
It wasn’t that you were in profile, 
or lowered your chin in sadness, 
though sadness stalks your eyes 
too often, just waiting there 
for a sag of your shoulder to pounce.
No, the last time I saw your face 
we wore masks for Christmas, 
perhaps to see New the Year, perhaps 
to see one another again at all.

But I know the last time 
I saw your face, your eyes told me 
a smile was crossing its Tropic of Capricorn, 
since I’d come back safe from my own 
Tropic of Cancer. And I held 
your face close, its Equator to mine, 
our cheeks at anchor for a long moment,
because what if this really was to be
the last time I saw your face? 

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