To know love is to know the sight of his eyes,
dark and warm as a lit hearth in the midst of winter.
Sometimes I see stars in them,
whole galaxies reflected in those umber depths,
whole galaxies turning in his mind.
They are more comforting than any others, to me,
gentle as they are in their purveyal of the world,
quick as they are to crinkle while he smiles.
I run over the memories in my mind again and again,
turning each one like pebbles into glass;
smooth and polished but never, ever to compare.
Their beauty is not in color alone,
nor shape, comely as they are,
but in the man who uses them to behold me in turn.
And thus it is a requited choice I make,
as I hold him in my heart,
to look upon his dear face and think to myself:
To know love is to know the sight of his eyes.