Blind Love

It is not that I am blind.
No, I am far from blind.
I may be slow, but it is a slowness
born of experience,

born of stories unveiled years later,
truths long hidden exposed
in moments of weakness or neglect.
Truth will out, they say,

but not
all at once.,

It is not that I am blind,
though at times I might wish for it,
wish I did not see the truth
behind those I love.

I would prefer the myths. I admit it.
The child in me perhaps,
or the teenage romantic,
all hormones and hope,

But somehow, I was forced to grow up,
even if it came late in life.

No. I am not blind,
but something in me is askew,
perception is altered somehow,
I do not see properly,

your beauty, the truths that glow in the night
and light the way, rise out of proportion,
exaggerated like a fun house mirror,
so large in my heart

that all else diminishes, and like a child
I see.only those things the mirror allows.

I am not blind.
No, not that.
I have chosen my glasses,
I have chosen the mirrors

defiant of reality,
like Shakespeare’s fool,
seeing more, far more
than you would believe possible,

a light in you so bright,
all else fades under it’s courageous imperfection.

About this poem

“To the people who love you, you are beautiful already. This is not because they’re blind to your shortcomings but because they so clearly see your soul. Your shortcomings then dim by comparison. The people who care about you are willing to let you be imperfect and beautiful, too.
― Victoria Moran, Lit From Within: Tending Your Soul For Lifelong Beauty.

I came on this quote earlier this morning on the post of a facebook friend, and I loved the truth in it. It describes love so rightly.

Tom