Once, I’d have written a poem about them. Compared them to leaves, grass - emeralds if I was feeling adventurous, because, let’s face it, it’s a bugger of a word to rhyme.
Now, I look into them as they darken with passion, and think, just for a moment, that I see myself reflected there, and maybe I do; look into them and wonder what they see when they look back at me.
Windows of the soul...yeah, and here’s me lacking one, so he’s looking into darkness, looking into emptiness.
So I don’t know why he smiles - but he always does.
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