Scrimp

There is no picture here. There couldn't be.

The main reason is even a picture would fall woefully short of you in my eye. Dreadfully scrimping on the details of you when you frame in my iris.

I do remember sights. I remember an encounter in a supermarket with white halogen lights and bright tile, a cart filled with boxes and wines. The color of spices on the shelves.

But you. You were delightful. You barely cracked a smile as the surprise of our encounter registered on your brain.

But that was then.

Now I get to see you again. Albeit briefly.

And you forgot that I love the whole of you that you may have forgotten.
You do not see what I have grown to expect. The familiar. The comforting. The exquisite unique but always the same face and body.

Ageless. Unrelenting.

I could see a million sunsets and still be drawn to the beach.

You are my horizon. The edge on me. From where I get to stand you are not a sunset because you are not a nightly scene.

But goddamn.

When I get the slight chance to spend a moment with you I am inspired. I am reminded. You are my muse. My pallet. My colors. My walk amongst a hallway of art.

You may wear yourself down in your mind. But in my world you stun. You eclipse. You echo and reverberate and consume my thoughts.

You. Your gentle movement into me.

You are so new. So familiar. I cannot scrimp on the words you compel me to describe the amazingly influential impact you bring.

I memorize you. Only to find it is more beautiful when you appear.