Optics

Sweet iridescent light,

an influx of hues.

Rivulets of silver and gold,

trapped in a stream through your eyes.

A window to your soul,

they always say.

Brimming with the emotion,

of that I was void.

Expression playing across your face,

like light dancing on the wall.

Yet the luminescence from the light above

was dancing no more.

When I look up,

it is not your eyes that greet me now,

but the stony stares of them.

Sticky fingers crimson,

blood splattered across my face.

I am the canvas,

and your blood is the paint.

Scarlet flows like an ocean around me,

bubbling and warm,

a sauna of my very own.

And not a single teardrop rolls,

not a single eye waters more,

as they watch.

A cry like no other,

a torrent of tears.

Yet all the water in the world

would never be enough,

to wash your blood from my hands.

And as I watch,

the alabaster wisps begin to rise.

The emotion is lost,

but my tears are a beacon.

Do not dissipate away,

I whisper,

come live with me.

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