record scratch: green eyes

Perhaps I only loved him because his eyes were green.

That’s what I told myself at the beginning, anyway.

That green eyes were rare, and that rare things had a greater desire to be loved than the common; rarity demanded an undivided posture of the soul. A grip that was strained and white-knuckled, hard fought for, hard kept. Rarities, at first glance, seem conceited, but I propose that they’re only self-aware. His eyes were never arrogant.

They were, however, quite beautiful.

And I’d love to say that the ones I’ve loved after made his pale in comparison,

and in some ways they do. But in many, I can assure you, they never will.

Doesn’t mean I loved him more. Doesn’t mean I loved them less. It just means that, with a weighted simplicity, of all the things I’ve ever loved in the world, among the things I’ve loved most were a pair of green eyes.

Cunning under the tilt of an amused brow.

Unforgiving in their candor when backed into a corner.

Lovely when the sun was given a chance to say hello.

Most intoxicating when they were on me, for reasons I still can’t name years later.

Maybe they were easier when they were on other things, taking inventory of other surroundings, other people. But whenever they happened to look at me, catch on the sight of me like something sharp might catch on the fabric of clothing in passing, they were inexplicably difficult.

Beautiful for the challenge they presented, but damning all the same.

But damning in a way that still presented salvation…it makes no sense. Maybe it makes all the sense in the world. Maybe, I don’t know… but I do know that if I ever learned to love a thing, I learned it from looking at him.

The eyes of course, but there were other details that carved the shape of my heart and how it beats still today and will continue to do so until the end of time.

For example, the beauty mark above his right brow. The faint dimple on the same side, the lack of one on the left. Full lower lip; I’d traced it enough times, the way one might say a prayer before they go to sleep. Birthmark above his collarbone on the left, looked like ink spilled. I’d teased him for it, only to stop myself from telling him that aside from his eyes, it was my favorite thing about him. A tiny scar, at the very top of his right forearm. It looked like the kind of mark someone might make on paper if they were scratching through the words, only to begin what they were writing again on the next line.

Or like the kind of mark one might make if they were ridding the pages of a confession. It depended on what day I was looking at it.

As for what he loved of me, he loved my smile the most. He’d told me, once. But only because he’d slipped. Because reader, I’m unsure of whether or not you have an idea leaning otherwise, but ours was a clandestine affair. A love not told in bold declarations or impassioned kisses, but in happenstance. In the corners of my heart, I loved him; and in the corners of his, I think he did the same. But neither of us ever said it. The most crippling words in history are always three, always said in the same order. Three words, three syllables, and each is a bullet’s kiss. And though we were children, we knew better than to play with guns. But he’d slipped.

It was one day. We were all in the large sitting room.

Beautiful open windows that streamed in a sunlight that almost made me like summer. Almost. Anyway, we were laughing. It was one of those boisterous, group laughs that broke out whenever one said something you wouldn’t even remember the next day, but for some reason, at that moment in time, it was golden. Fool’s gold, maybe I should say, but as long as you’re fools, it doesn’t matter. There were heads thrown back, shoulders being shoved, stomachs being held to try yet fail to keep more joy from bubbling to the surface of the moment and what those moments often spill into.

And had I been just a little more intoxicated with the moment, I probably wouldn’t have felt it, it was faint enough as it was. But I did. He’d reached out and traced a finger along one of my dimples—the one on the left because it’s deeper. It was so quick; it was one of those touches you don’t think about, the kind you just do because it comes natural before it has the chance to come to your mind. A simple drag, just to bring to my attention how badly the humor of the moment had affected me.

It was meant to be a tease. It was meant to never happen. It surprised him that it did; I saw that much beneath the surface of his eyes. I’d studied them more than my favorite books; reread the lines so many times. The pages of his eyes are worn to me; I’ve written in the bylines of their every inflection. Did he think I wouldn’t see? Is it selfish to not say that I see so much? Then maybe we’re both selfish. Maybe I’m selfish with his eyes, he’s selfish with my smile, and we’re both mad for not willing to play with guns but for one moment in the history of what it means to be this young and this enraptured and this taken.

He saw that I saw, though no one else caught on. They didn’t know his eyes. And, they were drunk on the moment; I was drunk on something else, in a way that alcohol wishes it could have me. And therefore, they cast no second glance at a minuscule touch from a friend. A tease fitting for the moment.

A confession reserved for a father from a wandering son, but a cross would never hear it.

And neither would I. He never touched me again. At least not on purpose. We never touched each other on purpose. I never traced his lips on purpose; only in the happenings of ‘accidents’ when the house was quiet, and the only voices were the ones that told time—told Time that we shouldn’t have much of it, children didn’t know how to behave with Time. Only in the instances of quiet corners, only in the dark of night, only ever beneath an old quilt in the sitting room that’d lay limp on the paisley couch—brown, looked vintage, the kind with rolled arms at the ends that made you wonder why your bed could never give you this good a sleep—had I ever held his hand. Fingers intertwined, hearts the mirror image.

If you’re wondering ‘why’…reader, I don’t know. Upon all this reflection, maybe I should, maybe it’s a shame that I don’t. Like other writers, I could say we’d crossed the stars at some point and blame it on their lack of favor towards us. But I’d be lying—and I hate to lie, even if it’s only a truth told in half. A truth not told in full is just a lie in sheep’s clothing. So the truth is, I don’t know. But I do wonder. I wonder what his eyes look like today.

I̶ w̶o̶n̶d̶e̶r̶ i̶f̶ h̶i̶s̶ h̶a̶n̶d̶s̶ s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶ r̶e̶m̶e̶m̶b̶e̶r̶ m̶e̶. I̶f̶ t̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ a̶r̶e̶ t̶r̶a̶c̶e̶s̶ o̶f̶ m̶e̶ s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶ l̶e̶f̶t̶ i̶n̶ t̶h̶e̶ p̶r̶i̶n̶t̶s̶, l̶i̶k̶e̶ o̶n̶e̶ m̶i̶g̶h̶t̶ f̶i̶n̶d̶ d̶u̶s̶t̶ o̶r̶ f̶r̶a̶g̶m̶e̶n̶t̶s̶ o̶f̶ r̶o̶c̶k̶ a̶t̶ t̶h̶e̶ b̶o̶t̶t̶o̶m̶ o̶f̶ t̶h̶e̶i̶r̶ b̶o̶o̶t̶s̶ a̶t̶ t̶h̶e̶ e̶n̶d̶ o̶f̶ a̶ l̶o̶n̶g̶ d̶a̶y̶. H̶a̶v̶e̶ h̶i̶s̶ h̶a̶n̶d̶s̶ s̶h̶a̶k̶e̶n̶ t̶h̶e̶ d̶u̶s̶t̶ o̶f̶ m̶e̶?̶ I̶ w̶o̶n̶d̶e̶r̶ i̶f̶ t̶h̶e̶y̶ s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶ t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶ t̶h̶e̶y̶’r̶e̶ t̶o̶o̶ y̶o̶u̶n̶g̶ t̶o̶ k̶n̶o̶w̶ h̶o̶w̶ t̶o̶ l̶o̶v̶e̶ m̶e̶, b̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ L̶o̶v̶e̶ o̶n̶l̶y̶ a̶g̶e̶s̶ a̶s̶ y̶o̶u̶ l̶e̶t̶ i̶t̶. W̶e̶’v̶e̶ a̶g̶e̶d̶, b̶u̶t̶ d̶o̶ I̶ s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶ l̶o̶v̶e̶ h̶i̶m̶ a̶s̶ s̶i̶x̶t̶e̶e̶n̶?̶ I̶f̶ h̶e̶ w̶e̶r̶e̶ i̶n̶ f̶r̶o̶n̶t̶ o̶f̶ m̶e̶ n̶o̶w̶, w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ I̶ s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶ b̶e̶ a̶ g̶i̶r̶l̶, i̶n̶s̶t̶e̶a̶d̶ o̶f̶ a̶ y̶o̶u̶n̶g̶ w̶o̶m̶a̶n̶?̶ W̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ I̶ s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶ s̶e̶e̶ t̶h̶e̶ b̶o̶y̶i̶s̶h̶ c̶u̶r̶l̶s̶ o̶f̶ h̶i̶s̶ h̶a̶i̶r̶, m̶a̶d̶e̶ l̶i̶g̶h̶t̶e̶r̶ b̶y̶ t̶h̶e̶ s̶u̶n̶, e̶v̶e̶n̶ i̶f̶ t̶h̶e̶ y̶e̶a̶r̶s̶ h̶a̶v̶e̶ g̶r̶o̶w̶n̶ t̶h̶e̶m̶ o̶u̶t̶?̶ W̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ h̶i̶s̶ h̶a̶n̶d̶s̶ s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶ f̶e̶e̶l̶ s̶o̶f̶t̶ t̶o̶ m̶e̶, w̶a̶r̶m̶, e̶v̶e̶n̶ t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶ T̶i̶m̶e̶ h̶a̶s̶ g̶i̶v̶e̶n̶ t̶h̶e̶m̶ c̶a̶l̶l̶o̶u̶s̶e̶s̶ a̶n̶d̶ w̶o̶r̶n̶ t̶h̶e̶m̶ r̶o̶u̶g̶h̶?̶ W̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ I̶ s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶ l̶o̶o̶k̶ t̶h̶e̶ s̶a̶m̶e̶—b̶r̶o̶w̶n̶ e̶y̶e̶s̶ o̶p̶e̶n̶ t̶o̶ t̶h̶e̶ w̶o̶r̶l̶d̶, h̶e̶a̶r̶t̶ c̶l̶o̶s̶e̶d̶ b̶u̶t̶ t̶o̶ f̶e̶w̶, a̶n̶d̶ h̶e̶’s̶ o̶n̶e̶ o̶f̶ t̶h̶e̶ f̶e̶w̶ w̶h̶o̶ h̶o̶l̶d̶ t̶h̶e̶ k̶e̶y̶, e̶v̶e̶n̶ s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶?̶ S̶a̶m̶e̶ s̶m̶i̶l̶e̶, o̶n̶l̶y̶ w̶i̶t̶h̶ t̶h̶e̶ u̶n̶d̶e̶r̶c̶u̶r̶r̶e̶n̶t̶ o̶f̶ s̶c̶a̶r̶s̶—o̶f̶ o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶ e̶y̶e̶s̶ t̶h̶a̶t̶ c̶a̶m̶e̶ a̶f̶t̶e̶r̶ h̶i̶s̶. S̶a̶m̶e̶ h̶e̶a̶r̶t̶ t̶h̶a̶t̶ c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ f̶i̶n̶d̶ h̶i̶s̶ b̶l̶i̶n̶d̶f̶o̶l̶d̶e̶d̶, s̶p̶o̶t̶ i̶t̶ i̶n̶ a̶ l̶a̶r̶g̶e̶ c̶r̶o̶w̶d̶, r̶u̶m̶m̶a̶g̶e̶ t̶h̶r̶o̶u̶g̶h̶ a̶n̶y̶ d̶r̶a̶w̶e̶r̶ a̶n̶d̶ f̶i̶n̶d̶ i̶t̶ s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶ t̶h̶e̶r̶e̶, u̶n̶t̶a̶i̶n̶t̶e̶d̶, u̶n̶h̶a̶r̶m̶e̶d̶. M̶y̶ n̶a̶m̶e̶, s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶ w̶r̶i̶t̶t̶e̶n̶, a̶s̶ t̶h̶e̶ s̶e̶a̶m̶. I̶s̶ m̶y̶ n̶a̶m̶e̶ s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶ w̶r̶i̶t̶t̶e̶n̶, r̶e̶a̶d̶e̶r̶?̶ D̶o̶ y̶o̶u̶ t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶?̶ B̶e̶ h̶o̶n̶e̶s̶t̶.