Remembering classic novels,

fairy tales,

inherited wisdom

of what you are meant to do,

I gaze deeply into his eyes,

hoping to see a sparkle,

a reflection of love

looking back at me.

But I am disappointed,

the eyes don’t shine,

they are flat,

devoid of any emotion

but pain and hopelessness.

The eyes are the window to a soul

of pain.

I look away.

All I can think of is death,

dead dreams, loss,

murdered opportunities,

life sucked dry.

… Sadness personified.

If I was the type,

I would cry.

And,

as I feel him squeeze my hand,

I wonder whether the eyes I saw

were in fact his

or

a reflection of mine.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

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