her cup of white
across my glass,
illuminating
where I've cleaned
and where life got away from me:
streaks of might-have-been
and almost-was
echo her round perfection
while other, lesser beams --
pale imitations --
test their own reflection
and dream of someday being real;
of no longer gleaming on their own
but simply basking in reflected glory.
To sit,
and wait while world revolves,
its raptured gaze enamoured with your face,
sighing at your beauty,
could be -- for some --
sweet heaven's holy chalice.
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