In the brightest day
there is a sparkle in your eyes
not the work of the sun;
it holds no cause
for the reflection of a soul
in windows tinted shades of warmest gold,
glowing through glass made of biology,
curved and punctuated
by a deep black period at the end of your gaze—
as if to prove there can be no argument put forth
to dissuade that shine from being,
no dark to keep the depths from seeing
the best about the world in front of them;
as if to say,
seeing myself refracted in your stare,
"This is where the rest of your life begins."
This is inexplicably comforting.
It seems to me there’s so much more to the world than the average eye is allowed to see. I believe, if you look hard, there are more wonders in this universe than you could ever have dreamed of.
Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water.
And everyone you love is made of stardust, and I know sometimes
you cannot even breathe deeply, and
the night sky is no home, and
you have cried yourself to sleep enough times
that you are down to your last two percent, but
nothing is infinite,
not even loss.
You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day
you are going to find yourself again.
Consider the look in my eyes a love letter I could never put into words.
Think of my smile as your personal signature you’ve written on my face.
Know that the laugh lines I’ll wear in several years’ time
will for my life mark the things you’ve said that brought me joy
once the words have been forgotten.