the sun entered your eyes
when they met hers
and the way you held her in photographs
defines love in a way my words cannot. 
i can see what love is, 
but my heart is closed and cold, chiseled
from unforgiving stone, and I will never
understand the warmth. 

I cannot see the way you look at me
or if the moon resides in your eyes. 
I do not like photographs; the way they
distort the perfect
pictures in our minds. 
So I may never know the definition of us.