His Eyes


He looks at her

through tinted lenses,

through glossy images

of the faded past.

He loves her

for the holes in

her jeans

and for the ones

in her heart.

Her laugh swirls

inside his head,

making him

drunk on her elation.

He wants to hold

her hand

when she’s happy

and wipe her tears

when she’s sad.

He wishes he

could tell her all the

things he misses,

all the things he’s missed.

He looks at his hands,

believing they

are not strong enough,

not sturdy enough

to hold her up when

she falls.

He sinks a little

further into


ignoring the whispers

from his friends,

the words that tell

him to try.

He’s given up

and that makes him

sure that he doesn’t


her tangled hair

wrapped around his fingers,

that he doesn’t


the broken smile on her lips,

that he doesn’t


the love…

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