First, your eyes.
The shape of the earth bathing happily in itself; stolen sunlight caught on a hot, giving solstice’s day just before the golden auburn tumbles behind the hills; years pocketed away into a little secret like a schoolboy crush; the wet world after raw rain when the waters learn how to kiss the land gently again; bronze but more, hazel but more, sand but more; an opening into the fact that you want to be free, Dear, that you want to be everywhere like the colourful stones that shape this universe, even if it is true that in you, in them, in those infinite eyes, is each place and each thing and each moment I wish to slowly share with you; your beaming eyes; your sunken eyes; eyes that I have seen rung with grief and that have disappeared away in loss like a spider’s web bragging with the windy, dead skin; eyes that weep, I’m sure; simple descriptions, truly: a brown, a white, a black, and a reality that they are simply beyond truth; a side of your cheek when you gaze away, soft at first, full flesh that I kissed in pleasantries before I ever tried to touch; a curl of your hair in my mouth when you are atop of me in deep darkness; questions of if I have seen, really seen, have I looked, really looked; have I let them lay with me, had them hold me whole in their delightful totality; how could I previously sit belly up with description when I was stumped by them; how could I have written anything worthwhile when I was wordless among their sentences; how they compose; how they read; how they are a pit of a peach dripping down a chin full of life; how they laugh; how in the single time you have sneezed in front of me, they were still slightly there, smiling floss, an entire civilization celebrating some holiday on a cliff’s edge; yes, they are the wet, common, dull speech – they are endless and breathless and are deservedly adored; yes, they are the library where every book will one day be and every letter will one day be slotted and nothing new will need to be said and nevertheless, people will argue that there is more, there must be more, look, look at her, at Dear, at those dripping, moving eyes; there are waters untainted there; ponds where frogs make home; the crashing of the worst wave that swears to be able to swallow it all in luscious mud; a pupil is a boat, a promise of a great catch, an old man holding onto the slim rim hoping for the next bite for a memory of you, Dear; one where you might be reading this now on a train, cradled by your lilied hands, your bright body, by your abundant, quiet eyes; eyes, just eyes; eyes that prove that the roses have something to grow towards; eyes that saunter with long summery shadows; eyes that know love is heavy and forgetting light, that know that even the smallest spark hums heat, that have come to understand that the world is not always kind and the people in it even worse and much too much smolders with the awful; for every baby born, one is placed on a frying pan; for every successful transplant there is the curdling of milk in the fridge; yet there in the imbalance, there in the disbelief of cruelty that starving wolves would snarl at, are your eyes shouting that there is still a possibility to make this small, sad place beautiful; eyes that tell my eyes that to achieve this one must first look with love; one must first be love; one must see the loveliest love in the disaster of things falling behind, even this description of what I cannot fully see: Dear, your eyes are art; they are singing flowers coming to be after a feverish winter; they are warmth, pure sights on their own, light on light on light; they are the invariable fact among the forest of your face, the season of fall holds the most the beauty for they are the entire world changing to behold the new, to witness you, to watch in awe as your colourful eyes look at something, anything. They are. They are. They are.
Until I am able to meet your eyes in my own, I am blind,