Found her

on the pages of the busy magazines

walking along the avenues

filled with incessant voices.

Took her by the hand,

pulling gently.

She

went along,

as if

expecting it.

Brought her home

with me.

Looked at her.

Closely, delicately.

Caressed and combed her hair.

Clipped her nails

and washed her body

thoroughly.

Laid in bed

with her

watching the sun

hide behind the curtains.

The sky

went dark blue

sprinkled with star dust,

brief patches of clouds

smearing the view.

Spent all night

beside her

regarding the wondrous presence.

Woke up early morning,

satisfied us both

with lemon and tea

and an egg frittata for breakfast.

Then,

picked her up

with tender care,

wrapped into a soft, clean cloth,

my initials embroidered.

Carried and packed into a box.

Closed her up,

leaving just enough head space

to sustain shape and meaning.

The box

is now sealed tight.

Shiny surface.

No seams visible.

In my hands feels light.

That’s alright.

Put it in the front left pocket

of my corduroy olive green shirt.

Left it there

for a life sentence

of repetition

and rigid incomprehension.

For dear to my heart

takes precedence

over the facts’ actuality.

Foundation built

on trust in ideas

that don’t need to be revisited

once decided.