The Sight of Love
A poem about how love is felt when it cannot be seen
Hearts beat a staccato rhythm, interlocked,
one indistinguishable from the other.
They are the ebb and flow of time,
the steady marching of the drum
counting the moments that stretch
to eternity in your embrace.
An eternity that slips through fingers
that have memorized your face.
Memories that form images of beauty
never beheld, tender and nebulous
as the gossamer touch of your lips.
Breath that carries infinite promise
on the back of words whispered
in velvet intimacy and honeysuckle voice
wrapped in a silken brocade
that conveys descriptions of things
never imagined.
Things that live in a mind trapped and tortured
in the darkness of the womb
yet set free at the faintest trace of your presence,
cooled by a touch that radiates a fire
like the final rays of the sun
gently caressing a cheek
once thought numb to its beauty.
In a world of night you are the guiding lantern
of the soul burning with a brightness
that even these eyes can see.
For the robbery of one sense
there has been another gifted,
one that transcends the cold unfeeling world
of progress, one that allows me to see
through your eyes,
your words, your touch, your love.
Yours is the only image that I have ever witnessed
and I thank the cruel gods above
that have stolen what could have been mine
and given me something so much more in return.
Two hearts beat a staccato rhythm
intertwined in their bond,
conducted by the dripping sands of the hourglass,
fleeting eternities gripped tightly
by fingers that will memorize your face
until the day that the music stops
and the sun sets on a face now warmed
to the sight of love.
©Nicholas B Girard 2020
