Blind

The Lovers by Rene Magritte (1928)

"So watch as I go back. I just came to say that
you'll never see me again.
This clock is ours now, till morning.
So stay right there in that frame.
This picture is how we speak. You'll never see me again,
'cause I miss you already."

-- "Your Taste is My Attention" by Lydia

Love is blind, says the optimist. Look at the yearning etched in the lines of the cloth, a potency that lies beyond the realm of verbal expression. External appearance is unnecessary. "It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye."

Love is blind, says the pessimist. The dishonesty of lovers who think they know each other so well, they've masked themselves in a fabric woven of their own conjurations -- "a canvas furnished by nature and embroidered by imagination."

Sometimes I wonder if you were even real. Were you ever there -- did we ever meet -- was it just a dream? Your face has begun to blur. Either I am beginning to forget you... or perhaps you were never really there to begin with. A figment of the imagination. If we passed by each other on the streets, you wouldn't know me. We would be strangers, and everything would be okay again.