The Eye That Does Not See

I watch summer melt 
in your eyes, 
a summer of wine and hot winds, 
of iced tea in porcelain cups, 
a season of falling tears amid 
late afternoon sun 
with the juice of half-eaten fruit 
staining the linen.

Trapped in the curve of your face, 
a smile trembles, 
a mouth that can speak of love 
in seven languages seeks to escape 
its prison with a single word 
that cannot form itself.

I think of this poem and how it becomes 
a world defined by your absence,
 a landscape lacking your touch, 
an eye that does not see its face.