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You come up to me and lay a gentle hand on my cheek. It's a little cold, leaving a sting on my face. I sit perched up on a table, arms tucked underneath my thighs and shoulders trembling. I've been watching you for hours.
Your face is angled and sharp, harshened by the lack of light in the room. Strands of hair fall onto your forehead. Your lips hang open slightly in a cute way, something you've never noticed before. If you had, I'm sure you'd have tried harder to close them.
And your eyes. Oh god, your eyes.
Calling your eyes 'brown' doesn't do them justice. The truth is, I cry every time I look at them. They contain a story more complicated than any writer could fabricate, a meaning more profound than any philosopher could preach. They make empires fall onto their knees. Waves and waves of soldiers lay down their weapons frantically, begging you to have mercy upon them. Religions crumble under your single glance. Finally every Pope, Swami, and Dalai Lama - dead or alive - can come to a unifying agreement: They worshipped the wrong god.
But yes; your eyes are brown.
These are the first words that slip out of my mouth this night. Your brows furrow slightly. You don't understand.
So I try again.
"Your eyes are brown," I proclaim as if it's the world's greatest secret, the Old and New Testament at the same time.
You withdraw your hand and look at me like I'm crazy. For some reason, my cheek feels colder without your icy touch.
I jump off the table and scramble towards you. Desperately I open my mouth to explain, but the same four words slip out again.
"Your eyes are brown."
I must have left the rest of my vocabulary at home.
I try not to cry. After all, I wouldn't be able to see your face with blurred eyes. So I keep reaching out, shaking your arm desperately, but your glazed vision remains zoned out over my shoulder. You wear a disappointed look on your face, as if you're thinking, This girl still hasn't learned her lesson.
Tears finally well up in my eyes. I drop onto my knees and clutch my palm to my aching chest, and the sobs rip through.
I open my mouth and beg you for help, but nothing comes out. All I can do is cry and cry, my body heaving with each breath. The floors crumble and the walls rearrange themselves. Mother Earth herself begins to collapse into her heated core, and in the middle of it all, I remain ignorant of the chaos around me. After all, my Earth died long ago.
It's my final moment; I at least know that much. A confession hangs on my lips, but there must be no mercy in this world. Because even with my dying breath, the message doesn't go though.
Just give me this one thing, please, I pray to you amidst the falling skies. I promise I'll go peacefully. I look frantically from side to side, searching for your face. But when my vision finally clears, all I can see is a ceiling fan and a barred window.
My senses return one by one. I first feel the warm sheets on my back. Then I notice that my eyes are strangely dry despite the tears that flowed just a second ago.
I hear a lonely bird chirping a warning for the incoming sun. And when the chirping fades, I push myself off my sheets for another soulless day I must live through. It passes in a blur, and I count the seconds until night finally arrives.
When I close my eyes this time, I find myself back on the table. Your palm lies on my cheek, and it stings. I want to tell you that you have really cold hands. But this time, I learn from my mistakes. I keep my mouth shut and simply watch you. Because if I stay quiet then maybe, just maybe, I won't have to wake up tomorrow to a world without you.