A Lover’s Gaze
Notes from a voyeur
I watch him watch her.
The way he takes in every curve — chin, cheek, nose, brow.
He seeks her eyes, pauses, then floats on their pool of comfort.
The sides of his mouth shape into a tiny smile
hinting at recent memories of lips touching lips,
and the sweet breath of pleasure’s sighs.
They stand close, not touching,
though his gaze caresses her fully.
And what of us,
whose faces others’ gazes turn away from,
rather than toward?
Whose cheeks and eyes and chins
have never traveled over another’s imagination.
Whose eyes’ only companions
are met in passing,
never lingering.
What of us?
Should we gaze longingly,
chin, cheek, brow, lips —
only to be reminded
of contours that are not ours to possess?
Or to caress?
What happens to the heart
when it recognizes the light behind a face?
It cannot help itself.
