I know her eyes, I know her eyes, I know her eyes.
I've stared into them for every hour of every day, I've carried her in my heart, in my soul.
I know her eyes.
They aren't the same.
They aren't ablaze.
They are not her eyes.
I've stared at the glassy exterior that covers her eyes, I've stared at the round cheeks and the thin hands. I've stared at the soft appearance of her skin and I regret every hour of every day for all the moments I lose not being able to hold her.
I carried her for months, supporting her until she could breathe and once she started taking those breaths, everything went wrong.

And she was gone.

I stare into the pictures of her for hours every moment that I can but still, it's not enough. it's never enough.
And I regret each and every day that I can't hold her, that I can't stare into her big, round, hazel eyes; and there's a new she now, one who's eyes aren't hazel, one who's skin doesn't look as soft, one who was able to breathe right and still continues to. And I guess it's a blessing but it feels like a curse, because I know her eyes and *they are not the same.