Those Eyes

Those eyes are still the same, though the look
has changed: gone the brightness
that spurred all my misunderstandings,

gone the light that burnt, once,
behind those shining irises, making your face
alive - and it wouldn’t matter if

the shine had faded in age; fond
memory would see through that, would
disregard even the worst cataract, find

old joys locked inside the gem gone dull
with good use. But when the stone is cracked
in constant anger, and nothing’s left

in its crevice, memory steals from
the frowning bedroom, softly making
its way to the empty fields’ peace, beyond.