Something About You

Keeps me waking

from oblong nights to morn.

It's not those worshiped pleasantries

traversed between yours and mine,

or the halls of untouched volumes

that occupy your mind.

It's not the gowns

that you have worn,

or the countenances that have adorned

the mantel of your eyes.

It's something deep within those eyes

that lie upon your cheeks,

a false memory, perhaps

of what was there that lied,

a place not unfamiliar

to angels, when they sigh,

a home I know, but scarcely go,

and where would gladly die.

And if, perchance, I should fill

your heaven-sent eyes with mine,

I scarcely know if I should go

beyond those eyes again.

by John Montana