The first time I saw you,
I knew your eyes weren't just brown.
I stared into your eyes
and they reminded me of soil.
The comparison itself doesn't sound so pretty,
but I stared a little longer
and your eyes reminded me even more of soil.
Soil that life peeps through to spit beautiful flowers,
Soil with rich health growing among it,
Soil that holds more than billions of lives;
memories, tears, laughter and anger.
Soil that trembles the world averagely two inches into disaster,
Soil that covers the nickel nucleous of our precious blue star,
Soil that preserve resting ansestors,
dust they became.
Soil that clasp secrets scientists breathe for revealing,
Soil that hides the bones of the first organisms to roam this planet.
Your eyes weren't just brown,
they weren't just ordinary brown eyes.
Your eyes were heavy with the world.
And as I clawed deeper and deeper into your soul,
I felt how your body cracked
little by little
like fragile glass wanting to burst with burning hot water.
Your eyes are so brilliant,
but to cradle tremendously vast amounts of the Earth's existence must be
so frightening.