Eyes for Miles

You have Mona Lisa eyes.

I've been told that, too, but more when I was a child. Mommy would dress me like a character out of Dr. Zhivago and my sister and I would bask in the soft clicking and camera flashes. By the time we could string sentences together, we could rotate our heads to catch our jaws and noses at their better angles.

My sister, however, never caught the Mona Lisa eyes like I did. I won my prizes and acclaim, but also the ability to mystify anyone within five seconds of making eye contact.

They told me that my Mona Lisa eyes never seemed to end, that I had eyes for miles.

You, too, have such mastery hidden within the confines of the normal set of lashes. Wash your face! I break in seeing the dark circles around your eyes, etched into your skin a little more deeply with every oblivious assertion you make. Take off this mask adorned in pearls and splotches of color! No magentas or teals shine more brightly than the deep cream of your skin and the flushed pink of your cheekbones. Nevertheless, I can still see your irises beyond the Venician artistry you hold so proudly... and I want inside them.

Yet, I must remind myself that you are only as good as your worst moment in time, the worst self you have ever projected to shatter through the pristine looking glass I see you through.

You may have eyes for miles, but what road can one follow if the power is out and no one is home?