coming back to words?
I have lost my writing over the past eight months. Not surprising: stresses and sudden changes will do that. I miss playing with words, and posting them in various places, so I hope to get at least three posts a week up this month, to start stretching my muscles again.
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His eyes were very blue yesterday. Not pure blue: he has sectional heterochromia iridum, a slash of brown cutting through the left iris. Memory wants to make it a dark golden brown, but it may be a deeper brown; I'll have to look more closely again. But the shirt he was wearing was a heathery blue-green weave, which brought out the fairness of his skin, the dark gold of his hair, and, o, so very much, the blueness of his eyes.
I used to dislike blue eyes, to the point where they could quench my attraction to someone. Something about the paleness against the white iris was disconcerting, and I never wanted to look into them. Rich brown eyes, mutable hazel eyes, those were lovely, but blue or grey -- those were too alien.
Eventually, I got past that, though I never really adjusted to the shock of those pale irises. But these blue eyes, looking almost turquoise because of the shirt and my perception, and the spiky lashes, some of them blond at the root, shading to dark gold, some dark gold shading to blonde, creating an amazing aurora around his eyes, and the rosy lips, held thin in an asymmetrically quirked smile, and later, relaxed and full and a deeper rose from kisses given and taken and exchanged... I don't get tired of looking at him.
Sometimes it's best when he's focused on something else, building, shaping, cooking. I can watch and study, and notice the way the hair grows on his arms, and how the light turns it from brown to copper to dark gold as he moves. Or the way his he tosses his hair back without thinking, the heavy ponytail arcing in the light. And then he turns, and sees me watching him, and his lips quirk, one eyebrow raising slightly. He doesn't see what I see, and sometimes I wonder if he understands what a marvel he is. But it doesn't matter. I see him, and I am coming to know him, and loving the learning, and the vision.
****
His eyes were very blue yesterday. Not pure blue: he has sectional heterochromia iridum, a slash of brown cutting through the left iris. Memory wants to make it a dark golden brown, but it may be a deeper brown; I'll have to look more closely again. But the shirt he was wearing was a heathery blue-green weave, which brought out the fairness of his skin, the dark gold of his hair, and, o, so very much, the blueness of his eyes.
I used to dislike blue eyes, to the point where they could quench my attraction to someone. Something about the paleness against the white iris was disconcerting, and I never wanted to look into them. Rich brown eyes, mutable hazel eyes, those were lovely, but blue or grey -- those were too alien.
Eventually, I got past that, though I never really adjusted to the shock of those pale irises. But these blue eyes, looking almost turquoise because of the shirt and my perception, and the spiky lashes, some of them blond at the root, shading to dark gold, some dark gold shading to blonde, creating an amazing aurora around his eyes, and the rosy lips, held thin in an asymmetrically quirked smile, and later, relaxed and full and a deeper rose from kisses given and taken and exchanged... I don't get tired of looking at him.
Sometimes it's best when he's focused on something else, building, shaping, cooking. I can watch and study, and notice the way the hair grows on his arms, and how the light turns it from brown to copper to dark gold as he moves. Or the way his he tosses his hair back without thinking, the heavy ponytail arcing in the light. And then he turns, and sees me watching him, and his lips quirk, one eyebrow raising slightly. He doesn't see what I see, and sometimes I wonder if he understands what a marvel he is. But it doesn't matter. I see him, and I am coming to know him, and loving the learning, and the vision.