When you look into my eyes
I was looking for a book that had long since been packed away in my parent's basement. When I found it, a few photographs came tumbling out. They were from what seems like a lifetime ago now. It was the last weekend before I left for my soph year of college. My girfriend (we had broken up but were still kinda dating. Time was not on our side and we were fairly realistic about the chances of a long distance thing) and I spent time in some of my favorite spots from my youth and my young adulthood.
Hope, youth, wonderment. All of it captured in bad photography. Her lovely pale smooth skin with her velvet lips up turned always in a knowing smile. Her red hair fluttering in the wind as she spun round and round.
And then the final picture. The picture she had managed to snap of me. It was when we were on the bridge overlooking the river. She had told me she wanted to take a picture of something in the distance (what it is now, I don't remember). She had spent the entire day as my companion, my model, my muse, my joy. She walked away from me, not running, not skipping, just gently pacing. I gazed out over the river, the heaviness of the impending trip crashing down. It wasn't just a town I was leaving, wasn't just a boyhood house that had ceased feeling like home, it was leaving her. It was at this moment that she snapped a candid photograph of me. I looked like hell, my hair wild, my collar upturned from when she had lifted it playfully earlier, my shirt half tucked in and half not from that same series of touches. There is no trace a smile my lips. Downward I gazed, pondering life without. She had taken my glasses earlier in the day, saying she wanted to see my eyes unobstructed. And I am reminded all the more why I like my glasses. They help hide me, guard me, give me costume and gravity. Unadorned, my brown eyes look into the river, revealing all.
Hope, youth, wonderment. All of it captured in bad photography. Her lovely pale smooth skin with her velvet lips up turned always in a knowing smile. Her red hair fluttering in the wind as she spun round and round.
And then the final picture. The picture she had managed to snap of me. It was when we were on the bridge overlooking the river. She had told me she wanted to take a picture of something in the distance (what it is now, I don't remember). She had spent the entire day as my companion, my model, my muse, my joy. She walked away from me, not running, not skipping, just gently pacing. I gazed out over the river, the heaviness of the impending trip crashing down. It wasn't just a town I was leaving, wasn't just a boyhood house that had ceased feeling like home, it was leaving her. It was at this moment that she snapped a candid photograph of me. I looked like hell, my hair wild, my collar upturned from when she had lifted it playfully earlier, my shirt half tucked in and half not from that same series of touches. There is no trace a smile my lips. Downward I gazed, pondering life without. She had taken my glasses earlier in the day, saying she wanted to see my eyes unobstructed. And I am reminded all the more why I like my glasses. They help hide me, guard me, give me costume and gravity. Unadorned, my brown eyes look into the river, revealing all.