New Eyes, Old Woes
I bumped into you because I lied,
a harmless lie, a child’s disguise.
I told the doctor I couldn’t see—
the world too soft, too blurry for me.
A naughty girl with careful schemes,
who thought that glasses sharpen dreams.
I blurred my eyes, I played my part,
to look fabulous—a work of art.
Perhaps I hoped our paths would cross,
a gentle bump, a planned-in loss.
I said that’s why—another tale,
another lie that learned to fail.
But this was true, beyond pretense:
the day you stepped into my lens,
the world returned, precise and bright—
in my new eyes, there you were, light.
How could such eyes make blush take hold?
So small, like peas, yet bright as gold.
Did they sing softly, just for me?
Or was it joy I chose to see?
It was my heart that sang instead,
too young to read the things you said
without words—fear behind your stare,
a shadow tucked beneath repair.
I didn’t mind. I took your plea.
I said, It’s fine. I chose to see.
My yes became your borrowed grace—
and just like that, we shared a face.
A lie gave way to something true:
I wanted glasses.
I found you.