this face i've seen ...only
not.
are you real?    what would it
feel like to touch it,  this, your ...your face,
to gently brush my eyes against your cheek
and somehow read your face-- reading 
as braille, with my hands, your eyes
and would i kiss this face?  
with fingers trembling  gently
as silent teardrops might.  
this face i've seen...only
not.  
this photographic you, this dream in colors
blurred by reality...so far away, so far beyond 
my reach...only
only...real enough
to seem to
touch

who are you? 
how can i know?  words, also may breathe
as photos of a spirit...a heartbeat?   
a longing begins to deepen
and  perhaps, yes, that kiss, only
dreamt...
how is it that these, your eyes  my own
have brushed against....
this face ...  my hands have trembled
holding,   are  you... only,
not?     or...?
and  so  i wonder,  now,  how 
it came to be that even in this dream,
i could  almost...
almost see.

and  i sigh...
and carefully wrap the moment up
and place it back, back into this red-gold sunset,
this wrapped moment of longing...
and as a child, perhaps,  tossing pebbles,
send it rippling out to sea...

who are we? so real, only
not...or, or maybe yes, 
what we are
may simply be a sigh, 
a moment of exhaled longing,
dimly lit, as a clouded  star echoed
in photos blending dusk and light--
a moment dreamt...
now, as  still as that moment
of touch and sight just past. 
 yes, i think...
a sigh.