Whirlpools

The rusty brown of your eyes has tiny whirlpools with hidden depths.
They’d glow like new year firecrackers every time you laughed.
But your smiles no longer bear the comma-shaped creases by your eyes I once adored.
You wear your hair shorter and cover fresh scratches with make-up now.
I try to find the childlike innocence in your laughter, but I no longer can.
You’re older, more sober now.
You clutch your wine glass tighter and like your music louder.
I worry that if I touch you, you’ll crumble into a heap of stardust.
And all that I’ll have left of you will be the tiny whirlpools in your rusty brown eyes.

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