Lorenzo Costigliolo (Western Hemisphere)

, , , and I love you
for what I don’t see of you
your voice through written word
though not a syllable spoken, heard
by none, yet sweet as bird
song ringing through dark silent night
lark of morning singing light
refrains of love songs, sterling bright
as your hidden eyes delight,
your empty lips, like mine,
all too alone
in verse;

and I love you
for what you see in me
that those with eyes refused to see
I standing here before them still, , ,
they turned away because I do not fit
their fantastic images
of all that they pretended me to be
nor liked my imagery
my metaphors
and similes
of me;

I love you still
not knowing who you are, really, met,
the perfect you that lives on printed page,
no height nor weight, no shape, nor age
to confuse the issue, so ideally set



is far more vivid than any words describe
lives on immutably, for today,
reappears another day, another shape
another form
for now,

and I love you now
the you I see today from words you say
beshrouded by the clouds of anonymity
and tomorrow, I’ll see you in a different way
until we meet, no pictures to pervade
my preconceptions;
the picture in my mind can change at will
and does, from light to dark
to short and round
from eyes my sapphires in the night
to brown of earth and emerald green
from lithe and lean on limber frame
to supple flesh, it’s all the same...
no image nor an earthly name.

And I to you, what image have you seen?
The who I am or who I’ve been? .