(no subject)
What poetic things can be said about eyes, your eyes, that haven't already been said? What similes may be used, what metaphors, and what natural phenomenons can I actually liken your eyes to without turning this wonder I feel into a routine bit of shamefully cliché love?
I'll begin with your eyelashes then spiral out to the parts of your face which aren't sealed with so many eons of the scribblings of the hopelessly enamored. But not to your body, your arms your legs your feet your chest your...for I can't even touch that, let alone with words.
Once they came from your eyes like a fanfare, parched and belligerent with several coats of black mascara. Now, as rain falls from wounded clouds, your lashes snake away from you in tendrils, darkened but increasingly they glisten. Drops of water alight on them, then drip, forming a liquid that is murky and thin; it travels down from your tear ducts and to creases in your face like highlighted tears. It is then further washed away.
I notice other things about your countenance that come as a surprise; yet once fixated in my memory, I tend to recall them as always being there. Darkly pigmented freckles mark your face without constant pattern, providing the backbeat from your slightly uneven complexion.
I look past your smile to the creases around the corners of your lips which flex when you speak or when you display some sort of emotion, or just when you figit. They draw my eyes to the lines of your cheekbones and on to your ears. You reveal them only sometimes when you nonchalantly sweep the hair brushing past your chin and hold the strands back with the nook behind it. Ears seem like silly things. Notice how we as children overlook ears up until a certain age, notice the rarity of their inclusion in the painstakingly scribbled caricatures of people, which we gave to our parents to post proudly on the refrigerator door. These things exist, but are forgotten, seemingly extraneous. They are my favorite.
I need only a couple short conversations to engrave someone's face into my memory. This is because, as I speak with them, I register the words but let my attention traipse across their features with abandon. This is why you might find my gaze alighting on the bridge of your nose or your chin or temples, cheeks, the swoop of darkness under your eyes -- but not your eyes. Lashes, perhaps, but rarely eyes because I hardly know how to decipher those things that we have spent our entire history of imagination trying to decipher. Although they may be beautiful, as some have said, I would not know.
I think I will know beauty when I can look someone in the eyes and let what I see there define me. Because I know sunsets, I know mountain tops, I know flowers and I know snow, but the thing I know least of all is life. Show me life. And I am yours.
I'll begin with your eyelashes then spiral out to the parts of your face which aren't sealed with so many eons of the scribblings of the hopelessly enamored. But not to your body, your arms your legs your feet your chest your...for I can't even touch that, let alone with words.
Once they came from your eyes like a fanfare, parched and belligerent with several coats of black mascara. Now, as rain falls from wounded clouds, your lashes snake away from you in tendrils, darkened but increasingly they glisten. Drops of water alight on them, then drip, forming a liquid that is murky and thin; it travels down from your tear ducts and to creases in your face like highlighted tears. It is then further washed away.
I notice other things about your countenance that come as a surprise; yet once fixated in my memory, I tend to recall them as always being there. Darkly pigmented freckles mark your face without constant pattern, providing the backbeat from your slightly uneven complexion.
I look past your smile to the creases around the corners of your lips which flex when you speak or when you display some sort of emotion, or just when you figit. They draw my eyes to the lines of your cheekbones and on to your ears. You reveal them only sometimes when you nonchalantly sweep the hair brushing past your chin and hold the strands back with the nook behind it. Ears seem like silly things. Notice how we as children overlook ears up until a certain age, notice the rarity of their inclusion in the painstakingly scribbled caricatures of people, which we gave to our parents to post proudly on the refrigerator door. These things exist, but are forgotten, seemingly extraneous. They are my favorite.
I need only a couple short conversations to engrave someone's face into my memory. This is because, as I speak with them, I register the words but let my attention traipse across their features with abandon. This is why you might find my gaze alighting on the bridge of your nose or your chin or temples, cheeks, the swoop of darkness under your eyes -- but not your eyes. Lashes, perhaps, but rarely eyes because I hardly know how to decipher those things that we have spent our entire history of imagination trying to decipher. Although they may be beautiful, as some have said, I would not know.
I think I will know beauty when I can look someone in the eyes and let what I see there define me. Because I know sunsets, I know mountain tops, I know flowers and I know snow, but the thing I know least of all is life. Show me life. And I am yours.