Those Eyes

Her eyes were not merely eyes—they were abysses
They pierced my aching soul , Into which I fell. 
They looked at me, yet did not see me; 
They consumed me, yet offered nothing in return but the echo of my own desperation.

To love her eyes was to grasp at shadows, to reach for the unattainable. 
Their beauty was a torment,
An accusation I could neither refute nor accept.
In their depths, I found my longing, my love,
My suffering, my own reflection distorted .

And yet, I could not look away. They held me captive . I love her eyes as a moth loves the flame, knowing it would perish, yet drawn toward its own destruction.

Her eyes are the kind of beauty that mocked the observer. They were not warm, nor welcoming; they were distant, like a landscape glimpsed afar. 
I stared into them not because I wanted to,  because I had to. 

Every glance was a trial, every flicker handed down without explanation. 
There was no love in them, not really, only a cruel illusion that kept me tethered. And yet, it was enough. Enough to make me believe, for a moment, that the emptiness I saw was not hers, but mine.

To love her eyes was to love my own suffering. Every glance she gave me was both a gift and a punishment, awakening in me a longing that it became unbearable.

I became a thing in her gaze, less than a person, more than a shadow.  
To love her eyes was to surrender to a paradox: The closer I got, the further away I felt.
In those eyes, I saw everything I wanted and Everything I could never have. 
so, I stared, knowing they would never stare back.

And yet, I clung to it as a drowning man clings to a piece of driftwood. 
They condemned me to a life of yearning, 
In return I could only thank them for it.



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