The slight curvature of the edges on his eyes would say: "I am the wave, the tornado, tsunami that will wipe your glass wall clear from all the dust and mud that you've chosen to ***** it with."
And yet, I feel like his walls are still marked too from all the days he spent wondering about love, and Love.
And from all the days he gave his heart out to the words on his notebook paper to talk about longing, arrivals, and departures of the heart.
And from all the minutes he spent listening to all my words - without clarity nor coherence of the concept which I was talking about - Instead, he let me blabber.
Now those doe-eyes. They glimmer with the confidence of clearing everyone's wall, but before that, perhaps I need to plant a seed that is the Self within him so that he'll clean his first.