To Kiss a Statue

I stare
up at soft marble lips
cold
white snow covered valleys.
Hard cheeks
paler than white
smooth
forever free of lines, wrinkles
his age preserved
traveling through centuries
though his blank eyes
reveal nothing.

Hand outstretched
reaching for something
just out of his grasp.
Aren’t we all?
So I slip my fingers
into his
weaving a basket
of cold stone
and warm flesh
twining together
art and emotion

I wish
he would wake up
though he was never asleep
to begin with.
Deep carved curls
perfectly placed
couldn’t be disheveled
by a thousand years of rest.

So I hold his cold hand
stare into his blank eyes
and kiss his snow-covered lips.
Yet even my warm breath
can’t make them melt.





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