'Do you really love them, or just the idea of them?'

Green canopies and orange sunlight,
A beacon for Eros' arrows of might,
And within the eye of gentle morn,
A spark of perfection, cradled and born.
Snapshot and stilled, an ouvre d'amour.
Love immaculate, golden eyes, and more,
Until the artist steps on a feathery crack,
And shrine of spurred moment fades to black.
Hair no longer halo, tousled and tangled;
Laughter, not melody, unflattering angles.
Photograph lands in what-might-have-been.
Lover no longer, de-fatuation replaced within.
A perfect painting, but with a touch, it will mar.
This is the curse of the star—only loved from afar.