Blue eyes. The first thing I noticed about you. And likely the last.
You know who you are, and if you don't - good. Because I couldn't bear the thought of seeing you looking so smug.
The reason I granted you this nickname, taking into account that someone may get a good hold of these letters after we've all perished with time, is because not only are your eyes the most strikingly blue I've encountered thus far: they are the most emotive, the windows into your guarded soul. They are the reason I decided to stick around you. But I'll let you think it's because you're undeniably charming and inappropriately hedonistic. That you think I'm here to bask in the voyeuristic pleasure of your well-toned form, or wrinkle my nose at your playfully sarcastic demeanor. Even if I'm aware that it sugarcoats your true self, to make you appear less damaged. And more significant, more exciting.
Those eyes. I see so much of my late husband in them. Not the man I told you about over drinks, but the one that no one else knew about. The one I associated with home. Forgive me for being so overly-attached to a physical attribute, but I find myself consumed by them, because I'm selfish. Because I want to witness your soul. In it's rawest form. It's purest.
But you are not pure.
You're far from any sense of the word. So far in fact that I can identify with you. I even see the reflection of myself in your eyes, though I daresay it doesn't scare me enough to turn away. But to linger and gaze into that shattered reflection, speckled in different hues of blue. Different hues of your thoughts. Thoughts that I am so inclined to discover. Because meeting someone who understands my own experiences is the only comfort I can hold onto.
I hate to be so cryptic, but revealing your identity would expose my constant train of thought. And, as of late, it consists mainly of you. You, and you alone. Whether that be at the prime of your middle twenties or slumped against death's door. Prising you, and specifically your eyes, out of my mind would be the toughest feat. A statement coming from the lass who had once climbed up the side of a giant.
Your eyes are too imprinted in my memory to disassociate myself with them. The way they naturally crinkle with your smile, or flash with unpredictability - reminding me that you weren't supposed to be my good idea. But my hedonistic abscond. The way they turn weary, when everything around you crumbles or becomes too overbearing, too tired of dramatic circumstances. Or how you sometimes wish you could close them permanently, as your easiest means of escape. Only to open them and see me standing there, as your temporary salvation, as an alternative to your own addictions.
Just please, don't mistake me for being romantic or poetic. Because I am neither.
Romantic.
Or poetic.
Just observational. And respectable.
