Trusting Your Eyes

The Roman statue lies behind a gauze curtain.
Soft light filters through. She looks like a ghost,
gossamer and ethereal, not the hard stone
she is made of, but a softer magic,
one that can only be seen at a distance.

This is how you see your love,
real and yet not real. Softer around the edges.
Lines and colors marked by the light
you both bring. Real.
Tempered by love.

There is an art to loving this way.
Or a madness. You are never sure which
or why your glasses are not rose,
but a thin curtain of light. Light after all
illuminates. And that is what you believe of your own love,
that it illuminates.

You are willing to live that way,
like an ancient teenager. A bit too passionate
for anyone’s comfort. A bit too ardent,
but you are finally old enough to not care
what others think, and simply live
in the light you see, trusting your own eyes
most of all.

About this poem

A love poem. A poem to all the people I love, who often do not see in themselves what I see in them.

Tom