Explaining Your Eyes to a Room of the Blind

It's the color you feel when you see loss. It’s Michael Jackson singing, “They told me, ‘You should sing a song of happy,’ I’ve been singing for so very long, tell me what should I do?” It’s the suitcase you take onto the plane that brings you into a new horizon. When you picture heaven, it’s the same shade of the sky. It’s the waves that crash against the sides of your boat and the smile on your face after you jump in. It’s the ballgown Cinderella wears when she finds her new life. It’s the smell of rain and fresh snow. It’s smooth jazz and the first chord you learn on your first guitar. It’s the curtains you hand so you feel at home and the soap you use when you need a fresh start. It’s the ocean at it’s deepest point, and the color reflected at the surface. It’s your first breakup and your last love. It’s the cleanliness of home, the color of your first pickup, and the way your heart swells when you look up at the stars at night. It’s him saying, “You look beautiful,” and the cheerleading outfit your parents bought you when you were little. It’s realizing you’re standing on the shoreline of a beach you’ll never see again. It’s the air in your favorite place. It’s the cover of the book you’ve read a thousand times, and the song you hear years from now, but you still know all the words. It’s the last hug you give to someone you love, and the tear that falls from your eye as you watch them go. It’s the color of the ink you write all your love poems in, and the hottest point on a flame. It’s impossibly beautiful and increasingly unforgettable. It’s the color burned in the back of my brain when I think of your eyes.