An old poet once claimed
The night has a thousand eyes
And it does,
All of them hers
Rising even as late as dawn,
I see them always,
Like the after glow
From my staring too hard at the sun,
Streaming into the dark of night
Clinging to my world
As the sun sinks again,
My brain trying to sort
Through them all
To find out which of them are real,
My heart beat quickened
By my thoughts of her,
Even now
At this late date,
When her sun has sunk
And I see is what I wish to see,
The aftermath of how
Bright she was,
Impressed on my retinas
A stubbornly as a tattoo,
Destined to fade over time,
Yet not quickly,
Not completely,
So later,
Even as I stumble on
Blind,
I cling to it
As if it is still real,
A thousand eyes by night,
One intense brought by day,
Scalding me still,
Making me burn
On the inside and out,
A memory of something
So potent
I dare look at it directly,
Blinding myself in her brilliance,
Her stare, blistering me,
And still,
I can’t make myself
Stare away.
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