It is said, “Eyes are the windows to the soul,”
but I don’t want to be a mere peeping tom,
want much to enter your home, sup with your soul,
so I scour, circumferring, for the door.
But the search is in vain, yours a House of Doom—
without door, ladder thrown away. As night falls,
I am left, stamping my feet, out in the cold
aching for the warm light from beyond the pane.
I stand here imprisoned in the wider world,
this sidewalk my cold cell, your eyes barred windows—
I pace back and forth, avoiding the vistas
of freedom your eyes e’er promise, emptily.
Your beautiful eyes break me, so I take axe
to wall, hewing bodily through barrier,
only to expose empty rooms and rubble,
bulbs broken, and no staircase up to your hearth.
Later, I wake on the lone tattered chair to
You: “I thought you’d never wake, care for dinner?”
Me: “Yes, please.” This house is not mine, I am but
a guest, boundaried. But this love is enough.