The lagoon at Boston Common. Marie Chatfield (2017).

Pilgrim, Question

I went to a place loved by you
on pilgrimage to absorb that quality for myself —
hoping to breathe in, amongst the air,
whatever endears your affection.

I sought you (your eyes, your smile)
in every face I saw,
but you didn’t conjure yourself into my presence.

And still all I know is the way you look
when your gaze first meets mine across a room.

But have I seen the look of love, beholding the beloved?