I Wonder What You See

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

mahogany trees.

 

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.

 

Surely though,

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.

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