Looking through your lenses, I understand more of what a lover and friend can teach me. Truth is utile and optional. Relativism with a few random absolutes is one kind of philosophical disposition. In you, Love fills up space that would ordinarily be occupied by self, but you make it work, ever observing the landscapes, the news, the ideas and the bodies that drift in and out of your sight–a sharp-sighted information eater. The stars guide you, fodder for your scripted imagination, and bathe you in romantic light. You were my moon. But I too can look the other way, acutely envision my fantasies as reality. What floats about the surface–stuff–are so many words elegantly phrased and delivered, but honest action is all that you are. You serve, you pamper and please while imagining that there is no other that could possibly exist in the moment, a gifted actor, a reality maker. You pick up the pieces, are savior. You gave me so many tasty morsels, bits of what stays with me ever more–a gesture, a joke, an insight, a practice, an idea, a line, or a catchphrase. You opened mind doors, stoked my intellectual fires, elicited my sexual imagination, and slayed me with tag lines: there is an essential but painful pleasure in seeing myself being seen by the other, and I am but one of Shakespeare’s poor players among a boisterously ignorant audience. Always that layer of my heart-soul silently keeps.
"My mistress' eyes are nothing…"
In the gaze of the other 