Psyche and Eros, a poem

In the back corner of a cluttered gallery
Of the Louvre’s treasure trove
Stands, or rather swoons in ecstatic recline,
The glorious marble embrace
Of Canova’s Psyche and Eros.
Each arching inward toward the other
Reaching, longing, lingering
For the tenderest of kisses never to touch,
Each gazes mesmerized eternally
Into the stone-still face of their beloved,
While iphone-wielding tourists clatter past,
Hunting for trophied selfies with the smiling Mona Lisa.
Few if any, linger long enough to admire
How close they came to consummation,
Before the knowing of each other
Sent them spiraling apart forever.
    The day I saw it,
Young and longing for my own Psyche
To awaken in the arms of its dear night-shrouded Eros
(To hold her gently in a pose so passionate
As to be almost painful.)
I couldn’t pull myself away.
And though the thought that I was seeing something
Even Psyche ought not have seen
Caught in my throat like shameful fire,
I stood and stared, rapt with wild wonder
And burning holy with desire.