A poem from my past that feels very much like the present.

Some looks,
gazes and glances too,
are one-person; are
private, delicate, fragile
things which
brook us interference.
Interrupted, they dissolve.
-click-
End of signal.

Something is lost
(Einstein notwithstanding)
But no one mourns
except the one whose
eyes could have completed
the circuit and saved
(for once)
something rare,
something of value.