Maybe Once Was
Walking down the street I’m reminded that I used to love a girl with hazelnut eyes. I should probably admit that I never once called her a girl. She was a woman with a capital W and she didn’t let me forget it.
The truth is that I was a boy. I was young and mentally impoverished by a life of faux luxury. I came from a broken aristocracy with a dowry of privilege wrapped around my smooth hands.
But her eyes…
Let’s say that hazelnut is the color of trees. It’s alive and growing with the nourishment of the sun and the rain.
Her eyes were not the color of trees.
Her eyes were the color of an ocean that’s existed for four billion years without once wondering why it’s here. They’re the color of a start dying at the edge of the universe—expanding and devouring with each second—never once aware of it’s own death.
There was music down the road, and I stood on the corner, looking down at the early blossoming trees. I smiled, and I sighed. I missed that girl.
