Tag: Romantic

Poem: Where Our Eyes Have Met

A single painting in an art museum gathers the gaze of countless viewers, linking people who will never stand there together.

This is a poem about that.

A hundred eyes
have paused at this painting—
or maybe a million—
a crowd distributed across decades,
all standing just where I stand now,
though wearing different shoes.

Some looked quickly,
some leaned in,
some tilted their heads
as if the angle held a secret.
None of them knew
they were becoming part of each other’s story.

The gold frame won’t say
how many people have stood here,
or how long,
or what they were hoping for.
Paintings don’t keep lists.

Still, I wonder
if your eyes
have ever touched this canvas
in the exact place mine do now.
If so, the colors would remember.
They are better archivists than we are.

A single brushstroke
might recognize you—
the way the spotlight sharpened on its surface
when you stepped closer,
the way it softens now
because I have.

We might have shared this moment
without sharing the hour.
Two visitors,
unlikely to meet,
connected by a patch of green
that neither of us layered
yet both of us trust.

It’s possible
the painting knows us both—
you by a trace of perfume,
me by the giggle I released too loudly,
you by the tear you wiped away quickly,
and them by a single loose thread
from their bright red scarf.

All the while,
it stays exactly where it is,
patient as a held page,
letting strangers
complete the same sentence
with different eyes.

What an odd, prismatic intimacy—
to be joined
by something that never speaks,
yet answers
each of us
in turn.

© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025

Poem: Undone

One layer at a time he peeled me

Like an onion

His hands wrapped around my outer skin

From top to bottom he found my flesh

And I made him cry

Like water

Running down the side of rock

In a cascade of drops becoming

A river below

Into which we jumped

His tears breaking our fall.



One page at a time he turned me

Like a book

His hands against the leather

Bound around my story, all my words

Unspoken and broken

He read and knew and studied

Like art

Smeared across a canvas

With descriptions written below

Telling of the image

Sitting still and wanting

To be known.



One note at a time he sang me

Like a song

Released from the beak of a bird

Whose daily life is filled

With music because music is

Like emotion

Strong and loud when the air is enough

And slow and soft

When there is tenderness in the touch

A balance of adagio and

A quickening of the pulse.



One sip at a time he drank me

Like wine

Held inside a carafe

Until the day my breath met his

At the edge of a glass

And stained our mouths with red

Like a flower

Vibrant with color and life

Not pulled but watered instead

By attentive hands

That understand

Petals cut or plucked

Are already dying.



Whatever the measures by which he moves

Whatever the story he tells

Whatever the words he says or unzips

I am undone

And his.

© Jill Szoo Wilson

The End Is In The First

The sun in parting crowns the west with flame,
A fleeting splendor yielded to the shade;
What morning gilded, dusk resumes in claim
And proves how brief the glory light hath made.

The season wanes, yet keeps its ancient round,
Its end enscrolled where first its course was writ;
What once lay lost in silence shall be found,
For time recalls what hearts would fain omit.

So doth the soul, when judgment draweth near,
Discern within its close the selfsame strain;
The first sweet note returns, though harsher, clear,
And strikes with weight the mortal breast again.

Each sunset speaks what day could not defend:
The way a thing began holds fast its end.

Jill Szoo Wilson, 10/25

Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.