You'd always turn to me, with that coy-yet-inquisitive spark: "I want to see something else in your eyes beside my own reflection"
How is there any way I could possibly respond?
Or... should I even attempt?
And what would you say if I told you that on a random autumn day
I felt something peculiar and warm; mindlessly raising my face from my book
Our eyes met. A quadrant of blue and green orbs grasping for something lucid in the ether
Yet, before you could turn away
I discovered my soul...
Because I saw my own reflection
That has been obscured by frozen glass and projections throughout my existence
Gentle, opaque core; the bright white light glow which form your pupils.
That of which I continue to be lost within.
please release me
please hold my hand