Her Eyes
Her Eyes
Has anyone ever told her how dangerously beautiful her eyes run deep,
not just beautiful — but deep like wells that hide whole truths in silence they keep,
and when she lines them with mascara — that dark and delicate edge so fine —
it becomes impossible to look away like the whole world dissolves into the shine.
Her eyes undo me like an old letter sealed up with wax and fire,
I don't need words when her gaze speaks everything I could ever require,
or maybe I'm just obsessed — quietly teaching myself the secret language of her face,
stealing glances when she isn't looking — like a thief of light without a trace.
What wouldn't I give to see even a flicker of longing in her eyes meant for me,
because when they meet mine — I forget things I was supposed to hold and keep,
I lose thoughts I meant to hold onto like precious stones inside my hand,
and I fall into them completely — I fall upward — like rain that forgets how to land.
When the moon rises the whole world stops to admire it in sacred silence and awe,
when flowers breathe out their fragrance everyone nearby feels it without a flaw,
when cold wind touches skin not a single soul stays unmoved or cold —
eyes this beautiful and this quietly powerful cannot leave me untolled.
I cannot be the only one affected by this gaze so calm and alive,
and still I hope she knows — even if I never say it aloud to survive —
that the eyes she carries are the only light that can ever reach and come through
the darker corners of my heart — where no one else has ever made it to.
The paradox is that her eyes don't look at me — and still I sink in them whole,
that she exists without knowing her existence is the map that guides my soul,
and every stolen glance is a small and complete and fragile universe of its own,
that I carry in my chest like a buried fire in the middle of April — alone.
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