Eyes are windows.
My eyes capture moments, freeze time, and light up at the smallest sunbeams that manage to come through.
My eyes seem different than other people’s, because they mean what they say. Or rather, they mean what they are. People can see through me, but my emotions are never a performance. They exist with or without the audience I’m oblivious to.
Others’ eyes seem to hide more complicated truths; waving white flags in one moment, then tearing them down the next.
The move of a chair, the art of pretending not to notice when I wave to you from the other side of the room, are all methods of avoiding what comes with locking eyes with me.
Humans say they love the sun, but they close curtains when it stares directly at them. They sit in the shadows until the sun has looked away, and then they open the curtains to enjoy the warmth again.
Letters appear behind other people’s windows. Blurry panes flutter in the wind, opening and closing too rapidly for me to make any sense of the shapes.
Are the letters trying to say something? Are they trying to say something to me?
I squint for a few more seconds, before deciding that straining my eyes trying to read is pointless. I was never good at reading windows.
I’ll wait for the next clear sunbeam to come through.
(i had to write this in prose for an extended metaphor assignment in class, but i might rewrite it as a poem when i get the chance :D)
