I See

I am trying to assemble coherence with an unwilling heart.
I momentarily convince myself that I can achieve anything,
But I desire nothing of value in the physical realm.
I want to sit quietly in the pit of your mind
While observing the various forms of perception
As the world grows old through your eyes.
Tell me what you see when the light hugs your curious pupils
And wraps around the curves of your busy synapses.
Help me understand the shades and textures that wake your soul
So that maybe
Just maybe
I could one day understand the self that is my own.
And when my vision is finally locked in a continuous sunless season,
I hope that I could still trace the outline of your smile with selfish but grateful hands.
Shape the dreamy verses of Mallarme with every crease on your lips.
For me.
I promise to return your borrowed sight as delicate as it always was.
Whisper the timeless words of Foucault and Wilde so that they may live forever on my other senses.
For me.

My sigh says I ask too much.