What fills your mind when storm clouds flood your eyes?
Blue eyes, too
And sometimes you'll sit in exquisite stillness
And just gaze
And shadows will pass across your face
The way high flying clouds cast dark patches upon the lonely fields out west,
And I just have to look at you.
Your face is...
Achingly lovely.
That precise phrase.
When I look at you in passing, by accident,
The porcelain perfection of your skin,
The glinting depths of your eyes-
Full of secrets-
The way the light casts the shadows of your cheekbones along your jaw,
Your symmetry pierces me
And I gasp air
Like I've been hit hard
Because in a way, I have.
What is in your head?
You remind me of the sea.
Vast. Deep. Free.
Calm on the surface
And contained chaos beneath.
Brutal but unapologetically wild,
Sparkling but guarded,
And...shockingly lonely.
That is what I see in your eyes when you lounge, lithe, in that ratty old chair
And endow it with a smooth-lined grace it could never even approach if you didn't occupy it,
Arm draped,
Face dark,
Eyes brooding,
Like a sculpture that came alive one day,
Stepped off her pedestal,
And left the soaring, silent museum hall for the scathing disarray of the real world.
I wonder...
Does it disappoint?
If you come looking for this... I consider it your fault.