He who loves not

Oh what of beauty, of him,
when as close as i become, i am still,
simply a miniature in his eyes,
like the ballerina,
opened and spinning, on grandmas dressing table
and he sees not, who loves not,
who breaths not,
a breath upon
a vanished moment,
revolving as a world
continuous in my mind.

he who loves not,
will find not,
we,
just you.
and i.