Her grey-blue eyes pull me into them. Their inner edges pointing sharply towards the length of her nose, drawing my attention to her lips, slivers that are tidy when solemn, curvy and spacious when jovial. And my gaze returns to those eyes, this time seemingly bluer, tracing the outer edges that draw me to the dark brown tendrils adorning the pale moon glow of her face – they fall to her shoulders and hug her neck with some distant strands strewn across her forehead. Around her neck is the proud history of an island, in silver circular form.
The grey-blue eyes. They are the ethereal conduit to her house of dreams. Ideas scattered all over the floor. Doors open to the current and future breezes all about the yard. They pivot to the strong winds of the past. Her house walls are lined by windows to sample the heat and coolness of the skies. A fireplace lit by her innermost feelings, flickering and inviting, passionate and alive. Always loving, giving, and consoling. Understanding and pardoning.
The conduit painstakingly collapses then. I feel cold shirked away from the flames. I feel blind, devoid of the windows. I feel impervious to winds with no doors to open or close. Sterile is how my foot perceives the touch of the ground beneath me. I feel lost. The grey blue begins to fade in to darkness. The slivers turn tidy. A shadow is cast over her face. But before they cover her eyes, I see the dark brown reflection of my eyes, an endless, mystical knot, infinitely bounded. I close them to preserve what memory I can.