Observing Love

Observer, Though impartial, I can never be as I try to see you through others eyes. Today you will be just a man— Past his youth, not yet elderly, Though you show signs of aging. Your dark hair, now sports silver, Or perhaps that’s just the beard. You remain tall, could never be otherwise When you stand over six foot two. The spring in your step has shifted; Now the measured step of one who knows His direction and has felt the weight of responsibility. The complacency of years has added a pound or two, And the sun, or was it worry, left a few lines around your brown eyes. Despite it all, women still find you attractive-- Evidenced by their eyes tracking you, then jumping To me with puzzled curiosity. Covetous gazes are just there-- An impartial reminder that for better or worse, you chose me, And all detachment ends. My eyes may see you as just another man, My heart never could. It sees every flaw and imperfections, and each Carries its own endearment because it Creates you in your entirety of emotions, habits, and form. Your chest is the one I have laid my head upon for warmth, To cuddle against, or to soak up tears of sorrow and grief. Your scarred hands are the ones that hold mine just because, Stroke through my hair, and caress my body in more ways Than I could ever describe. Your mouth still kisses me good morning and says, “I love you,” in front of the guys. Your whiskey brown eyes, see all, or do they? Sometimes, I know they must be blind as they look past All of my foibles and blemishes to see only desirability and beauty. That is your magic which annihilates objectivity, for whom Could ever be dispassionate through the eyes of love? I am compelled by your love, until I am Nothing more than your reflecting pool, a deep Morass of feeling, ignoring all others. There may be thousands more handsome, smarter, Better able to provide, but for me, there is only you: My rock; my safety blanket; my magic mirror; my partner; My Love So once again I have failed. My thoughts have morphed from unbiased to subjective, But it’s a failure that I’ll gladly own. Perhaps it means I love you, at least half as well As you love me—the bar is incredibly high. My eyes see never just a man, but my man— The one who loves me when I cannot; The one who loves me through trials, change and joys; The one who makes me better than I thought I could be; The one who owns my heart and steals objectivity. Know that, while observational neutrality vanished, My love never could.