Perfect.
The golden light outlining the features of the statue’s simple face,
capturing my attention every time I visit.
Should I come by more often?
Faultless.
One day your podium lifts you higher than I remember,
higher than I can see.
Trying to imagine what you look like now,
I close my blinded eyes and fill in the gaps—all I see is your silhouette.
Could this be my imagination?
Realisation.
My longing to disobey the ‘do not touch’ sign is fulfilled as
I run my hand over the rough surface of your face,
noticing the cracks on your jaw,
on your nose.
How could I have been so wrong?
Broken.
Now laying on the cool ground,
you’ve come down from your pedestal,
displaying the bland rock inside your shattered head.
And just like that,
I’m picking up the pieces.
As my bleeding hands puzzle you together,
my bleeding heart now recognises a different you.
