The clouds whiteness fills inside of my pupils.
سپیدی ابرها ،آکنده می سازد سیاهی چشمانم را

The first time I looked into her eyes, I saw what she was talking about.
The pain was there, and it was alive.
The stone grey pupils that I couldn’t help but stare into were a solemn tone, but I saw the beauty in the pain.
I saw straight through what her eyes were telling me.
I saw the girl behind those eyes, and the beauty that lied within the fragile frame that was taking all my time.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I found you half-dead.
In your eyes,
pupils were still giving away the scent of love
Breaking the harsh silence and the dark shapes of ****** footprints
Painted on your face.
The line of your body, turned into a mosaic bloomed scars,
Awakened a yearning inside of me, chopped my heart
In the timid kisses and gave away the color of your veins
Scattered on the fabric of our first awakenings.
In the depths of your flesh I'm trying to find the deafened sobs
I've listened to the dreamy nights
Under the veil of your skin,
Hidden from all sadness hungry of my tears.
I'm leaning your bloodless fingers on my lips
Listening to your presence.
By kissing your ******* I'm diving my touch in your naked
Lungs, spread out like a butterfly
Imprisoned inside your glass body.
With my tongue I'm discovering the taste of your neck,
Decorated with a red line
Of my love.
I'm biting your vocals,
Remembering of your laughter that still echoes
In the spaces of my thoughts.
You're still beautiful, safe in my arms.
You give away your happiness with a smile on your torn face.
Your love reaches me through a mild rushes of wind.
I'm leaning my cheek on your ankles,
The softness of your flesh overtakes me by passion.
And you are giving me your last stirrings of life
That you don't need with the tenderness that my breath is giving you.
I lie down next to you on the bed soaked in red,
I'm overtaken by the smell of rotting roses and smooth juices
In which we sink together.
I'm putting the remains of your waxy face on my shoulder,
I'm choked by soft closeness of your tangled hair
Packed on the pillow.
And I feel your gratitude,
While the sweet sounds of loving
Float through our world,
Safe and bloomed.

She has a heart of cedar color
And dreams in shades of peony and lotus stems.
She leaves the smell of cyclamen and ripe apricots
Behind her,
Those who are crying in the shadows of Magnolias
Are finding a shelter within her.
Sometimes I imagine that I'm the sea foam
That is touching her ankles
And the air that envelops her lips,
Absorbing her every move,
That is reflected in the mosaic of her pupils.
Her thoughts are sleeping in the depths of my veins,
In every pore that absorbs her voice
I can hear her breathing.
I remain frozen in her existence
And in the contours of her shadow,
All of what I have seek so far
I have found in every thing on which she brushed.
After all,
I'm just a pale reflection of the stars
In her night sky,
The dying firefly in her garden
Of white poppies and wild rose hips.

It trembles on a pedestal of glass and sand
A single beam of light pierces through the emptiness to illuminate its shaking
Its face of silver mirror reflecting light that disappears into the void
Frost coats the edges in the most delicate web, it shimmers with every angle
What odd eyes scan the depths of this isolation
Endlessly black bottomless pupils searching tirelessly
Eyelashes echoing arachnid origins flutter, meet and part
Sharp angled cheeks cut through the stillness with ease
A stillness of the mouth makes a parting of lips rare and foreign

The eyes flutter closed
Arachnid lashes meeting and locking
The lips part
Soft sighing escapes
The lips craddling its birth

I’ve heard that pupils
dilate when looking at
something you love.

After 116 days you
called and I didn’t
want to talk but
you insisted so
I interrupted and
asked what color
my eyes are.

I even told you I wish
I had my mother’s green
eyes envious of my sister
for getting to wear them,
and that on a lucky day a bit of
shamrock can be found in
the muck of my eyes.

After that I’d widen my eyes,
and ask what color they were
that day. You’d always say
green, telling me exactly what
I wanted to hear.

I could never forget
the icebergs you call eyes
because they never did
change in size.
So a week later
I called and told you
exactly what you didn’t
want to hear.

And I no longer mark
days lucky or unlucky
based on what I see
others seeing in me.

They roll.
The close.
They're near my nose.
They wink.
They weep.
They dream when I sleep.
Windows to the soul.
Pupils black as coal.
I see all sorts.
They are the gateway to my thoughts.
I cherish my eyeballs!

It took one, to turn her
pupils into shrunken heads.  

© Matthew Harlovic