I went from looking at the fable like green fields to his eyes. Maybe it’s his fatherland’s sunlight or maybe he hid that from me in the foreign land where we share our love. But for the first time I saw Blue in them. And it was not fleeting; it was surprisingly, maybe even insolently, permanent. A come-and-go-as-it-wishes permanence.
His eyes are not homogeneous, they are a tapestry. The colors lay next to each other to influence the pupil, choosing not to mix and muddle the masterpiece. At times defiant and dark and colored with an emotive mystery. His walk or accented language, the content of his discourse or profession or even his sensitivity and physical beauty might not allure you but his eyes will always trap you. And Blue, well Blue was the last thing I thought I would find.
I look back at the rushing perfect country side, on the perfectly maintained train, thinking of the perfection of his imperfect eyes.
How is it that I never saw this?