Her Eyes (Invocation in the Gaze)

From the window of an old photograph,

your eyes —

not just looking,

but reaching,

whispering spells I had long since forgotten.

What incantation lives there

in those still pools of dusk and dream?

They undid me.

Not with sound,

but with the hush that follows a first breath in love.

My heart — once a fortress of quiet,

now trembles

beneath the weight of a glance.

And the mind —

like a kite let loose —

drifts in the windless sky of your silence.

O those eyes —

are they vessels of wine

or portals to a realm beyond remorse?

Are they chalices, or churches, or

just twin windows

where my soul goes to kneel?

I've forgotten the taste of solitude

since drowning in their depth.

I’ve unlearned my name

and all my prayers

now begin with you.

No tavern calls me anymore —

your gaze has become my intoxication.

Each blink, a benediction.

Each pause,

a passage to something sacred.

I beg of the stars:

let me meet those eyes again —

not through a cold frame,

not across time’s cruel distance,

but as breath meets breath,

as two rivers find their confluence

in a valley that remembers every monsoon.

For if I die

without ever

touching

the living fire behind them,

my soul’s long journey

will remain incomplete —

its map unfinished,

its purpose unfulfilled.