“One of the deepest longings of the human soul is to be seen.” ~ John O’Donohue  

See me.
Look at me.
You already have you say….
a hundred times you say….
Then tell me,
what color do my eyes turn when I am sad,
when I am angry?
Does the rising color in my cheeks offend you?
Can you see me?
Can I matter?
Or like marching ants along a sidewalk
will you step over me… 
past me
with nothing to hold your interest
nothing stirring you to look once,
A mere chain of identical segments
but not a single one with a name.
Nobody you recognize.
See me,
look at me.
At me,
at the woman, not an 8 x 10 flat photo dusted once a week.
 Not the girl in your minds eye that you were introduced to long ago in a noisy room,
who filled a checklist of necessary qualifications so efficiently
that no further research was required.
File closed.
You never invited me to swim into the deep end with you,
floating in the shallow was sufficient
 and there were many other interests to be explored
and machinations to tinker with that were more intriguing than
this face.
See me,
see into me…
and let me look back
long and unguarded. 
Let me drink my fill
I have been thirsty for so long…
Let me blow a kiss,
like a dandelion wish,
floating across our shared breath and we could inhale together;
that first taste of possibilities, 
that subtle perfume of nascent trust.
See me,
sun full on my face and hair unpinned and windwild
nothing standing between your eyes and mine.
I’m scared…
but I will hold very still and give you time to pause and perhaps
 stay a while.
See me, 
seeing you.

About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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