Illusion Poem by david e golledge

Sometimes
her face seems like an illusion.

The lines I've studied hour after hour
become mist, as difficult
to grasp as sunlight.
She's a recurring dream
I can never quite recapture in full detail.

Photographs convey only wonder.
Even this is tempered,
lacking the dimension of flesh.

We are apart,
and I can't seem to trace her eyes
amongst the multitude in my head.
She's forever beyond my reach
until she returns in her entirety
and we touch.

Sometimes,
physical contact
seems the only means
of confirming her existence.