John

. . . and when I remember the blue of your eyes,
The me that I was then still drowns, (the good kind),
In the blue, the incredible blueness
Of your soul’s windows,
Where you looked out at me, and the clearness of the blueness
Made me believe every word you ever said.
Oh, your eyes, your beautiful eyes. . . .
The clear, clean blue, the kind of blue that is almost clear, but blue, but clear, but mostly blue,
Like the still, clear, blue sea,
When you are in a glass-bottomed boat and look down,
and you can see through the clearness of the blueness to the bottom of the sea
where beautiful shells and starfish and tropical fish and the occasional eel are,
seeming an inch from your hand,
but really a mile away. . . .
And when you reach eagerly for something lovely, to help you remember the day,
The only thing that comes up to meet your fingertips
Sends an electric shock all through your system
And you remember, all right.

Your eyes were like that.

I loved to look at them, and see the beautiful things behind them.

One day I looked more closely.
And what I finally saw, through the clearness, and the blueness,
Hiding there among all the lovely things,
Gave me the courage to leave.
I turned once,
And you looked out at me, and didn’t blink, and didn’t smile,
And didn’t say goodbye
When I turned away
Forever. . .
. . . and when the me that I am now remembers the particular blue of your eyes,
I still drown, but not the good kind.
I can only feel the electricity that burned me when I reached for something lovely.
I wish it would burn the memory away,
But each time it only brands it deeper in my heart.