Beauty is always a surprise. Some kinds of beauty are nothing short of a fairy tale.

part-broken, part-whole



I know what eyes are made of. They’re made of the ocean, of caramel, of December mornings, of drops of absinthe and splinters of amber. Eyes are made of honeycomb. Of steel. Of midnight and monsoon. Of smoking coal and dying embers. Of toffee, jujubes, and violet pastilles.

I know of eyes made from shards of the sky and stalks of willow. Butterscotch candy and peppermint leaves. Eyes made of fire, made of stone. I know eyes are made of old wine bottles. And marbles. They’re made of soap bubbles and muddy puddles, cognac swirls and Blue Curaçao.

I have seen eyes the color of money, with hues of ache and longing, schisms of doubt and hope, the radiance of youth and the grey of age. I know eyes composed in the deep grey of silences, the dark black of unknowing, in azures of complacency, and whorls of dark chocolate.


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