The Girl With Pretty Eyes
I’ve always been called
the girl with pretty eyes—
a single feature stealing the light,
eclipsing the riot of colors within me.
As though the universe chose one window
to hold all its secrets.
But he—
he never says a word.
Not once
has he looked at me
the way the world does
He never calls them pretty,
never crowns them with metaphors
the way others do.
And maybe,
just maybe—
it’s because they’re his
And he knows that they’re his.
I wear his vision,
his stare
his color,
his softness,
his sharpness
And he’s lived inside these eyes for years,
watched the world through them
long before I ever blinked or cried
Compliments don’t mean much
when you’re used to seeing
your own reflection
in someone else's gaze.
Maybe that’s why he stays silent—
not because they’re obnoxious,
but because what the world calls beautiful
is, to him,
simply familiar.
-yuri
