What if you never saw the face of the one that touched your heart? Perhaps imagining is not the word but is the only one I can offer, imagining the face the tip of our fingers should be caressing, make sure that it is real.
For me it would had been...the face of her...

Like a blind man I can only imagine
with fingers that are too far away
to touch the softest oval contours
surrounding I know, her lovely face.

We have exchanged many love letters
brownish now from hundred of years,
yet, can’t feel has passed so much time
when I close my eyes and think of her.

In Fall’s nights full of wandering mist
she’s there, on a tree, a gossamer face,
and I can’t feel all the raising solitudes
from forgotten tombstones up in daze.

When forest loses all its leaves it seems
that winter are coming with more space,
with unmerciful freezing cold from skies
to make icicles of all my falling tears.

If you don’t believe me, look next fall,
to any naked tree and you will see there,
what I see with the eyes of a blind man
that love imagining…The Face of Her.