something happened to me yesterday.
i looked into your eyes and found absolutely nothing. not a flicker or an ash or even the trail of happiness that you leave yourself on days when you forget how to find your way back to me.
it was a funny thing, really, because usually you're more open than a dictionary, but there's not much to find—to define, to discover the root of that one word that you've been asking me about. you're more like a thesaurus to me. a couple of synonyms. you reflect one aura*, but i call it something else that means the exact same thing, just switching up the letters so it makes a different word.
but back to your eyes that didn't speak to me that day.
it was june, i think. but everyone called it november. or maybe i got the time wrong, or maybe it's the time change. maybe it's just me.
it's definitely not me.
i'm probably just confusing the time with the shape of your pupil that decided to keep its secret. dilated to the point where it nearly swallowed the entire colored part of your breathtakingly delicate eyes and shaped it like an analog clock—the iris, i was told.
but part of the aqua flecks spoke to me—yelled, actually.
it screamed, they screamed, "for a soul that knows it's purpose, i have seemed to wander from the bunch; from those who understood. comprehension on the topic of life where we are bound and forced to believe. why, my love, are we forced to believe?"
and i laughed at the way the corner of your eye twitched its inquiry, for i don't know, sky writer.
i can't give you answers to the questions that your mouth didn't give me.
you should blink, though. you're giving yourself away.