It is thrilling to know you are understood, and what all understanders have in common is a skill of the eye that conveys there is obviously more to you than you’re letting on.
It acknowledges that unknown merely means unexpressed.
To catch an eye is an opportunity. It says,
“Together we are more rare than apart.”
I let you take authority with that glance only because the desire to know is more kind than threatening.
You, with pale long arms and this miraculous and familiar dark and stringy tussle on the top of your head—I’ll accept your knowledge of me—only if you promise I can squint at you whenever I want, sometimes smiling or with the most micro head movement.
I will always hold the thought of what at least one of your long looks did to me, but trust that I was not transfixed by the marbled color of your eyes or your lashes or their deep setting and smallish size—it was the boyishness behind it all.
I know you’re a character in a book because I can read when your eyes change and speak. Our pupils speak in a secret code that my consciousness is never allowed to understand but don’t doubt, and don’t deny, what works and changes inside of me—dough perfectly kneaded, lovingly left to rise.
An author made famous by paying his scholarly dues once said it is a pity and disgrace to use the word “eyes” when describing the glassy, rolling bulbs in your skull because they naturally lend themselves to much more vivid imagery.
But I will never apologize for finally stating plainly, or singing out the window, that your eyes make me feel like simmering caramel is encapsulating and softening my limbs, even running through my veins.
You turn all my atoms into something much more decadent.
Molly Begg is a thinker and writer consistently working to find (and honor) her voice in written form. She is a reader who loves to check-in to a book for hours and is passionate about simplicity and clarity in life and language.