They say that eyes are the window to one's soul. I can't fully disagree. But these are her eyes. Hers.
They seem so...distant. So gone, but yet, they're looking at you in the eye, speaking. Yelling, almost.
Her eyes. They hold depth of unimaginable proportions, deep brown. Almost honey, almost whiskey. The color swings, sways with her emotions.
They seem to long for help, long to be held. Her eyes truly give away her soul. I try to fight them, I don't know why, but they draw me in. They toy with me. Her eyes pull me close and throw me back.
But I can't let go. I hold on, for I know what she sees in my eyes.
The same darn thing.
But hers, hers. They seem to keep me close longer than they push away. They tell me things even she doesn't know. They tell me, that despite her past of boyfriends, that she needs someone.
Me.
Her eyes prove that I can no longer look at anyone else the way I do her.
Her eyes tell me that her soul is damaged, that any tinge of hurt can break her.
The honey in her eyes tells me that she knows I couldn't hurt her. But the whiskey. The whiskey in her eyes tells me that she's afraid. Afraid. That she might be wrong. That I might be just another one of those men.
I know my eyes tell her just that. That I couldn't hurt her. That I couldn't be one of those guys from Boston or Los Angles, or any other big city.
Both her eyes and mine, they say that she needs something more than just big-city guys.
She needs small town love and caring.
Her soul screams for the 'good boy' that treats her with respect, love.
Just as her soul longs for that, just that, I think that she just needs someone who will hold her a little tighter. Someone who will keep her close by, looking past the beauty that lies outside of her mind.
But whoever may be right, her or I, I know that I could do it.
I am up for that challenge.
But when I look into the eyes again, my defenses drop and anxiety and hope rises. What if I just think that I can do it? What if what I really believe is true is just what lured in all of the other men?
But then, when I feel like running, she looks right back at me.
Her eyes focus on mine just as I am doing, and the anxiety falls.
It seems so perfect.
The eyes collide and souls meet. And that's when I knew that our souls were only complete when we collided. Her eyes still on mine, I feel a sense of security. I know that she feels the same way, and, damn it, I will not let her go.
They seem so...distant. So gone, but yet, they're looking at you in the eye, speaking. Yelling, almost.
Her eyes. They hold depth of unimaginable proportions, deep brown. Almost honey, almost whiskey. The color swings, sways with her emotions.
They seem to long for help, long to be held. Her eyes truly give away her soul. I try to fight them, I don't know why, but they draw me in. They toy with me. Her eyes pull me close and throw me back.
But I can't let go. I hold on, for I know what she sees in my eyes.
The same darn thing.
But hers, hers. They seem to keep me close longer than they push away. They tell me things even she doesn't know. They tell me, that despite her past of boyfriends, that she needs someone.
Me.
Her eyes prove that I can no longer look at anyone else the way I do her.
Her eyes tell me that her soul is damaged, that any tinge of hurt can break her.
The honey in her eyes tells me that she knows I couldn't hurt her. But the whiskey. The whiskey in her eyes tells me that she's afraid. Afraid. That she might be wrong. That I might be just another one of those men.
I know my eyes tell her just that. That I couldn't hurt her. That I couldn't be one of those guys from Boston or Los Angles, or any other big city.
Both her eyes and mine, they say that she needs something more than just big-city guys.
She needs small town love and caring.
Her soul screams for the 'good boy' that treats her with respect, love.
Just as her soul longs for that, just that, I think that she just needs someone who will hold her a little tighter. Someone who will keep her close by, looking past the beauty that lies outside of her mind.
But whoever may be right, her or I, I know that I could do it.
I am up for that challenge.
But when I look into the eyes again, my defenses drop and anxiety and hope rises. What if I just think that I can do it? What if what I really believe is true is just what lured in all of the other men?
But then, when I feel like running, she looks right back at me.
Her eyes focus on mine just as I am doing, and the anxiety falls.
It seems so perfect.
The eyes collide and souls meet. And that's when I knew that our souls were only complete when we collided. Her eyes still on mine, I feel a sense of security. I know that she feels the same way, and, damn it, I will not let her go.