Eyes like two high-beams,
Felt them sweep over me,
And focus to a point
Like a dangerous laser beam.
Then when I turned my head
And peered back into them,
If I looked closely enough
I could hear moaning in my head,
I could see her in my bed,
Or her bed, or on the floor,
Or right here against this door,
Or inside my car, or behind those trees,
Or down in the dirt, down on her knees.
Her eyes told me stories,
That I wouldn't believe.
Those intense high-beam eyes
That washed over me,
And flooded me with light
Shining from radiant memories
Of everyone else that she's looked at
The same way she was looking
At me.
Did they all see her as I did?
Wet in the dirt?
In a light floral skirt?
Or is it different for everyone
That peeks back at her?
I still feel them
Looking at me
Across all these miles
Stretched in-between.
Maybe that's wishful thinking.
Maybe, indeed.
It's hard to describe.