poem, Poetry

An Ode to the Hollow

An Ode to the Hollow

April 2013


We were both

So much more beautiful when we were younger.

Which begs the question,

of what is beautiful in middle age…

I think

To be ourselves, us…

I look at these old pictures,

we were beautiful.

But there is none of the art of who we are,

in them.

You with her,

Me with him.

Those images of old,

hold some kind of mystery

Of normalcy,

That we never really knew.

Who were those people?

I see us now and how they all want to catch a glimpse

Of you in the night

And the soulful eyes in mischief laughing,

Turning dark the skies,

the moments that they think they want to know.

They try to see me,

Without my sunglasses on,

Or get me with that unlit


Hollow now again, the curve

Under our cheek bones.

Some of our art we carry now

in our faces,

and in not caring about anything, only the work,

that we are together in some way

in this life,

the ache to stay that way

this love,

knowing we belong,

to these words

and blank pages,

until we scar them with our memories,

of how to formulate sentences