Damn, your eyes.
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He had beautiful eyes. Not the kind which makes you want to drown, but the kind that makes you want to swim back to the shore, which makes you want to sit on the sand while you watch the waves move back and forth, and which you just can’t get enough of. When I looked into his eyes, I saw myself. And even his eyes, just like his words, made me feel beautiful. But beneath the reflection lay emotions he never wanted to talk about. There was a story of fear narrated by his frantic eyeballs, fear of not being held on for, fear of not being worth someones time. He had once told me about it, about being an atelophobic (which he considered to be the worst fear of all).
His gleaming eyes told me about the times when he had breakdowns but no tears had come to his aid. Stars twinkled in his eyes, not of hope but of longing. Longing for the day when his fears, anxiety and confusion come to a rest. I wanted to be there when the day came, and I wanted to be the reason why.
She had beautiful eyes. Not the kind which makes you want to drown, but the kind which makes you want to set the world on fire. She had fire in her eyes, and it made you warm. It was a campfire by which you and your friends sat down and had marshmallows as you sang “Stairway to heaven”. It was a forest-fire burning down everything that came in its way. But it was also the fire that heated a blade to remove a bullet. It was beautiful, destructive and caring. But beneath the fire were stories only a few people knew. There was light in her eyes, unfolding the story of how she feared the darkness that consumed everything every night. There was passion in her eyes, a passion that burned brighter every day. And there was chaos, stories of when her heart had been broken, of when her mind hurt from thinking too much, and of when she just could not do anything about it.
The fire in her eyes was not of anger, but of intensity, passion and love. It was ablaze, and I wanted to burn in it. I wanted to destroy myself in her love. I wanted to burn in her fire. I wanted it so much, that even as I take my last breath, I hold it in a little longer and burn a little more.
– Excerpts from a book I will never write.
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