beautiful eyes

The problem, as I see it:

when you looked at me,

when you peered in my eyes

and told me you liked what you saw,

(though I was not looking

for anyone or anything)

I liked what you saw

when you looked at me.

And now,

when I look at myself,

when I get lost behind my own eyes,

I fear that what you saw was fleeting,

(though I search diligently

sweeping the floorboards for

anyone or anything worth treasuring)

and I’m no longer sure what I see

when I look at me.

(and even still,

I like what you saw,

when you looked at me.)


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