The first time I saw him, I noticed his remarkably beautiful eyes—and, of course, his hair, distinctly styled—let alone anything else. I’ve never met anyone with eyes as opaque as his. For a fleeting moment, I felt my soul disengaged from my body.
Although I could not read his eyes when my gaze met his, it was as if I was searching for poetic truth to ground myself in them. My awareness collapsed, validating whether it is darkness that holds depth or depth that holds so much darkness. His dancing orbs did threw me for a loss when they danced to the rhythm of his voice—his tongue was in sync with them.
In his absence, for the longest time, I marveled at how his perceptions and his visuals weaved the fabric of his imagination. Visualizing. Would it be tragically unfathomable for me? Would it lament the lushness of my imagination, if I were to speak of it?
My answers hummed with deafening quietness.
Because that night, in my dream, I saw light decay in his eyes.