Thine eyes are naught short of brilliant orbs of blue,
small robin eggs
which glisten with morning’s dew
as you tell me with silent conviction a truth I refuse to believe:
Beauty is a love withheld.
You constructed a web of memories -
weaving together tender bits of skin and
sweet and shallow breaths
around a fragile little heart,
a slight dose of magic to up build a wall,
a wall that reflects the past
and entertains fleeting glimpse of the future –
as you whisper with fierce intensity a truth that I reject:
Beauty is our love withheld.
And it’s my breath, which hitches,
catching somewhere in my throat.
And it’s my eye, which itches,
burning with stinging tears.
And it’s my ears,
which are ringing with an unsettling truth I now believe:
Beauty is love withheld.