Perfect form

Perfect form.

Perfect surface.

Perfect moment.

Standing there

in stillness

he and I.

Both waiting

I could have stayed with him

until all the others left

the noisy admirers,

the dutiful,

until we were alone together;

until we were locked up in darkness.

Forever.

But it seems that

despite his eternal gaze,

his pure white skin,

his immobile stance--

stone resting in his hand,

the strap cast over his shoulder and back--

his ever ready watchfulness

his confidence and clear intent,

that I am the one

who is actually alive;

I am the one who is breathing.

I am the one who must move.

Not so. David.