I wonder what you see
when you look in my chestnut eyes.
For you always do dream in brown,
an eternal chase of cinnamon soot
across auburn lands.
What do you see when you look so close?
Leaning forward so intently
elbow at reset on russet table.
Is it the white speckled coffee swirling in your mug,
the penetrating warmth reaching bone?
Or maybe you think back
to when henna donned my body
and in a sweet cocoa voice
you berated me
for covering blemished skin.
Do you remember the smell perhaps?
Of roasting nuts over an open fire,
bronze twigs cracking as they shot up
in caramel flames.
Maybe even, you see the sea
when spilt oil had turned it black
and dead plants bobbed atop cresting waves
a deep umber in their death.
Or is it my hammock you remember
dun string intertwining
beneath yawning leafless
You always do smell like burnt ochre
As if you tried to sear away
it’s oily scent.
And you didn’t care when people stared strange
as you removed brown lenses
to reveal olive pits.
you must wish to steal my eyes
a dusty fawn of confusion.
But what you don’t know
is that no sepia ever glinted in their reflection.
For when you see brown
I see crimson.