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Perhaps it was the enigma of a yarmulke
or the way his features fit perfectly in mine.
It was him.
Thrown into reverie
when I see his nose
on someone else.
I’m certain they can’t fathom
why my eyes linger.
Or why I must avoid their eyes
with a guilty blush of thoughts.
If I had not buckled under the credence
of my disenchantment
and longing for familiarity
I could have known again.
Innocent child who stroked fragile powder
off the butterfly’s wings,
renders it unsalvageable.
Sacred paradise, our bracha.
Linguistic painterly strokes
over a bed
of hot coals will bring fire
to those smoldering
in delight
of ancient texts.
When I fell in love the
Rabbi was off that day.
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