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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