good to meet you

that withered body,
twisted by time
sits still, subjected to
whim or care of
those around you.

you are spoon fed
platitudes,
condescension
served alongside your dinner.

eyes, with a diminished view,
your voice locked inside,
unable to sing those songs
of yesteryear.

hope dies a slower death
than these bodies, than this mind.

recognition reaches across
that enshrouded mist.

that tender moment,
your hand seeking mine

you are still an effective beauty.

yes, i see you

--bruised orange