Your eyes, from within that frozen frame,
gaze out—not merely at me,
but into me—
with a silence more eloquent than speech,
with a stillness deeper than sleep,
as though time itself paused
to sip from their mystery.
What spell did you cast,
you sorceress of the soul,
with nothing but the calm weight
of your lake-deep eyes?
My heart, once a steady drum,
has lost all rhythm—
my breath stumbles like a child
learning to walk in storm light.
Are these eyes,
or are they chalices of wine,
crystal goblets filled with ancient intoxication?
Tell me—are they windows
to a forgotten Eden,
or mirrors into the soul I lost
before I knew it was mine?
Since I drowned in their quiet tide,
I’ve not returned
to the wine-house of the world.
Who needs taverns or vessels of drink
when your gaze
is the cup that overflows?
One glance, and I forget
what loneliness meant.
Tell me, beloved—
how do your eyes speak without a voice,
touch without a hand,
wound and heal with the same shimmer?
Even from behind this painted stillness,
they haunt me—
like stars in a portrait of dusk,
like echoes in a hall I’ve never walked,
and yet remember.
Your eyes—
two lotus blooms resting on a twilight lake,
unshaken by wind or wish,
but endlessly stirring me
to dream.
Bring them to me, if ever the gods are kind—
not just the memory, not just the image,
but the living gaze,
the undammed tide,
the eyes that might meet mine,
not in paint,
but in breath and moment.
Because if I never touch that gaze again,
never watch those eyes respond,
my soul will wander its lifetime
half-born,
half-bound,
a pilgrim never arriving.
The journey between souls—
it needs no road, no map,
only a meeting of eyes.
Let it be.
Let it happen.
Because if it doesn’t,
this voyage of spirit and flesh,
this life I carry like a jar of flame—
will remain incomplete.
And I—
no matter the joys,
no matter the miles—
will forever be
unfinished.
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