The Forgotten Spots
He sits across from me, staring out the window in contemplative silence. The café may be bustling around us but our tiny bubble is undisturbed, leaving me time to observe the gift in front of me without reproach.
His hair is in disarray, along with the haphazard clothing he dressed in this morning. The shadows along his jaw are deep from days without the use of a razor. The hand and arm that’s casually slung over the back of his booth shows the signs of his harsh trade. Scars and calluses mark the topography of his fingers. The weight of years shows along his skin and body, time taking its due from youth.
No. He is not the type that would catch a woman’s eye passing down the street. He blends in and is accepted as part of the chorus, not the star dancing center stage. He is too dark and unapproachable; hard looks and rounded curves.
But I know the softness of his touch and the love in his heart.
The laughter in his voice and the fondness of his tone: whispers of secrets and promises during the long winter nights.
The sounds as he breathes when lost deep within his dreams.
The warmth and safety found within his arms.
The pain reflected in his blood-shot eyes, streaked in tears, while we wait for my test results.
I know all his forgotten spots and there is where his beauty is most overwhelming. Through my eyes, each piece is breathtaking and heart-stopping. I can barely breathe through the sudden intensity of love I feel for this man.
As if feeling the intensity of my gaze, he turns his head and smiles.
And he is beautiful.
Sheila Hall ©
Art work: Cafe Terrace at Night by Vincent Van Gogh
Desires in the Dark 