their eyes were the
shattered kind,
flecks of pain
and happiness
mixed together
as one. sort-of like
a paint by numbers,
yet way more
complicated with
multiple hidden points
of depth, of history,
the stories begging
against the steel
lining of their minds,                
almost like prisoners
waiting for freedom.
no stories come out though,
because if the stories,
the memories, the pain,
if it were allowed to
come out, then everything
would fall apart. the
very weak bond holding
the gates to their agony,
would burst into
small, disorientated, fragments
of years trying to forget
what happened, and all
that perished long ago
would rush furiously to
the forefront of their mind
like a riptide. all the torturous
thoughts they've worked
so hard to repress
would come back to haunt
them in the worst
of ways...

he would start
to love her again, and
she would start to drown.