Statue

She is a statue.

Brought to life by the hands of a Greek.

I stand in the June light and look at her perfection.

The cheek flushed of rose.
The emerald glitter in the eyes.
The hands of a lover.

She sees me from the crowd and our eyes lock in a shared stoic silence.
And I instantly become infatuated.

Day after day I come to see her.
Day after day she stares back in silence.

Some things I say cause the cause the roses in her cheek to fully bloom; the emeralds to shine fully; the hands to grace my skin.

But she remains a statue.

Day after day I speak to an inanimate object.
Day after day I go slightly madder.

She sees what is happening before I do.
And I wonder if a tear ever left her eye.

She knows I love a statue.
Something that can't love me back.

But, in all my foolishness, I don't care.

And she remains silent.