How St. Lucy Could Have Lost Her Eyes

He lays in bed next to me, close
like the monarch to his woven chrysalis.

“Why don’t you look at me?”

I ask the copper crook of his nose in profile against a sun-softened curtain.

His eyes flicker, following the colors on the ceiling, his lashes shimmer like dew.

He wields his tenderness like a scalpel to my chest.

“Because it hurts you to be seen,”

He turns his face to mine
and I ignite.

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