Leaves that are long fallen,
curled and dry,
skirt up and dance around our still feet
in their reds, yellows and greens,
and for a moment I get lost,
swimming in the light hues
of your hot-chocolate eyes.
You tell me that my eyes aren’t green;
that the way they change colour,
the way it looks like a lightning bolt
around my pupil is incredible.
But do you know, just yesterday,
when you smiled that smile at me,
your eyes weren’t chocolate…
they were the colour of burnt whisky-
sherry against liquid honey.
And first thing in the morning,
before the sunlight finds its way
through the gaps in the curtain,
did you know that they’re actually
the colour of soft earth
kissed by rain?
I guess what I’m trying to say is that
to me, your eyes aren’t brown at all.
so warm that when you look at me
they melt into the blacks of your irises;
eyes like rich soil with flecks of hazel nut,
or the colour of deep brown winter trees
under a starry night.
With each look they become different,
another shade, deeper, lighter,
pulling me closer,
wrapping around me;
and that sweet golden light
of your eyes
races down my spine
each and every time.
Copyright: Laura Davis © 2017, all rights reserved.