PROSE: She

Her eyes. It was always her eyes that grabbed me, forced me to pay attention to her and only her. Those eyes are large – too large, in fact. On someone else they would have looked strange, or frightening. On her, they take my breath away.

 

They are green. The first night I looked at her, it was the green that made me pause, made my eyes catch on her face. Green, vibrant green. Like the soft rich grass of a lush meadow, the bright healthy green of leaves in early summer. Green, and soft, like her soul.

 

Too big, her eyes are, too big to be normal. They make her seem younger than she is, more sensitive. Every man that sees her feels the stirring of protective instincts: watch her, guard her, keep her safe. This one is special.

 

And when she turned those eyes on me, that first night, it was like the world had stopped. It was as if she saw straight into my soul, and understood my every dirty secret, and forgave my every flaw. It was as if we shared a secret that no one else knew existed. The world grew soft, and quiet, like after it snows. Like a soft verdant grove the same colour as those eyes, the silence broken only by the sweet calls of bird-life.

 

Every night I see her. Every night I return, again and again, drawn to her like a zealot to a holy place, who dreams of seeing the face of God.

 

Every night she has a different name. Ophelia, Aubrey, Beatrice, Juliet. Every night she wears fantastic dresses I could never give her, jewels I could only dream of buying. Every night I whisper to her words that mean nothing and everything. She smiles, turns those huge eyes on me, and the moment stretches out a hundred years. And then she turns away, speaks words I hang upon with a grip of steel, lest I fall.

 

She speaks of love, of betrayal, of life and death. She speaks with a passion echoed only by my own, a passion that drives her to madness, to the highest heights and lowest depths. A passion that drives me back to her, night after night. A passion inflamed by those eyes.

 

She speaks of love and of betrayal. But she doesn’t speak to me.

 

And every night I sit at her feet, adore her every movement. But every night those eyes linger on me but a moment, and then she turns away… turns away, to speak to another. Turns away, to live and love and die. The lights come up, the dream ends, those eyes are lost from me forever. Lost. Lost.

 

I stand, a kerchief held fast within my fist, my jaw tight. I leave, and when I step out under the stars I forget that she had turned away. I forget that she is lost to me, and instead dream only of that moment when I can next look into those green eyes.

 

Tomorrow she is Cleopatra. Cleopatra, with green eyes. Tomorrow I will see her again. Tomorrow, she will die.

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