Lovers and poets and writers have always romanticized eyes. Eyes are the window to the soul, eyes are where it all begins. A friend of mine once announced that in life, he was going to decide everything that is to do with love, based on the eyes of the person. I guess it is a natural thing to do, to look upon the eyes of a person to find a thread that matches the colour you were looking for.
The romanticizers of eyes will also tell you that the ones to watch out for, the ones that really take your breath away are green or blue. I know a girl with blue eyes and I wouldn't disagree. What I will disagree about, is that I believe the ones to watch out for are the singular colour of honey brown.
Brown is a much-maligned colour, always judged as earthy and pastel. I fell in love with this girl with them eyes brown and beautiful, like polished wood staring at you with the warmth of the slowly dying embers of a weekend campfire on Monday morning. Soul catchers the colour of guitar bodies, meant to hold you close in their embrace and call forth sweet music from everything around. Burnt siena, the way you imagined mother earth, blooming and bountiful, in drawings from your childhood.
Honey brown, she told me, was what her mother thought the colour was.
Honey brown, they felt warm going down my sight, processed by my brain and understood to be generous and loving, looking at me, on a moonless night.
The romanticizers of eyes will also tell you that the ones to watch out for, the ones that really take your breath away are green or blue. I know a girl with blue eyes and I wouldn't disagree. What I will disagree about, is that I believe the ones to watch out for are the singular colour of honey brown.
Brown is a much-maligned colour, always judged as earthy and pastel. I fell in love with this girl with them eyes brown and beautiful, like polished wood staring at you with the warmth of the slowly dying embers of a weekend campfire on Monday morning. Soul catchers the colour of guitar bodies, meant to hold you close in their embrace and call forth sweet music from everything around. Burnt siena, the way you imagined mother earth, blooming and bountiful, in drawings from your childhood.
Honey brown, she told me, was what her mother thought the colour was.
Honey brown, they felt warm going down my sight, processed by my brain and understood to be generous and loving, looking at me, on a moonless night.
No comments:
Post a Comment