Depth of your eyes

Your eyes— not black, not blue, not the ones usual poems are written about,a tint of gray, a bit dreamy and hypnotic, like dusk caught between longing and calm.

Long, round, like they were shaped with intent. To pull, to hold, to make someone forget their way back.

The way you wear your kohl— God. It’s criminal. So precise, like poetry with edges, turning glances into daggers and me— into a smitten, crazy mess. Every. Single. Time.

I don’t know why but every time I look at them, I drown. Willingly, like that high you chase but never explain.

Each glance you spare has made my heart miss a beat or two, and those butterflies? They’ve made a home in me.

And maybe one day, when those perfectly lined eyes choose to actually see— I just hope you don’t go blind to the love that’s been blatantly obvious, wildly patient, and stupidly yours this whole damn time.