Maybe I'm the one who's blind, not her,

cursed by a vengeful, petty god.

I see the future clearly laid before me,

but miss the here and now through veils of tears.


I see her smile and laugh and thrive,

yet strangely, all I can do now is grieve.

She's happy now, and that's a bit infectious,

she makes me smile, so thrilled with each small step.


But late at night sometimes as she rolls over,

and laptop light shows curves that are brand new.

Her cheekbones now so full and unfamiliar,

I choke back sobs, my world comes crashing down.


It's been twelve years now that I've slept beside her,

and suddenly I find her face has changed,

and for a moment, briefly as she tosses,

a stranger lies in bed with me tonight.


It's habit now to call my wife by her name,

her true name, one she gladly chose.

But here and there, a moment's hesitation,

as I remember who she used to be.


LIfe's different now, from what I once expected--

the man I married once is gone for good,

and in his place a beautiful young woman

who sees the world with eyes both bright and new.


She sleeps a sleep now more than ever peaceful,

this path our lives are on now is correct.

So why am I still wide awake and writing?

When will these scales fall from my weary eyes?