Your eyes give more than what you would want to let out.
I’m afraid i’ll run out of words some day
and that my memory will crumble and all i’ll be left with- some withered half torn photographs in sepia. It makes me anxious for I want to make you immortal. When words will fail to come out, I’ll be dismayed; how else would people know of the ravishing beauty that you were and the subtle ways you trampled on hearts and broke it into a million pieces.
Here you are, in front of me, in flesh and blood; I’m sorry I can’t help looking in your deep hazel eyes, half concealed with your locks. It speaks of a forlorn tale about your debacles for decades, about the truth of your rusty skin and the struggling smiles to keep you sane. Sorry for staring too long. That scar I see beneath your right eye, what is it? A self induced sin or a chaste mistake?
I want to know your stories that are deep engulfed within and saturated with chagrin. I want to know it all.
I no longer fret to preserve her chronicle. You see, those hazel eyes cover her stories from the rosy life to a decayed death. And as long I have a picture of her eyes, I can write songs about her- till the end of time.