The swirling watercolors cast a vibrant allusion on the stark white canvas. Her eyes start to take form in front of me. I stop to gnaw on the end of my brush and furrow my brows. The paint drips onto the floor, a mess of blues and greens puddling up by my bare feet. Wriggling my toes in the cool abyss of color, I feel her eyes staring into my heart. Those eyes that resemble every shred of goodness and light that has ever shone into the darkness of the universe. Even the sun cannot compare to the elemental lightness that twinkles every time she bats an eyelash. I look into those eyes, and I feel a piercing wave of heat blaze over my shoulders and into my chest, deep down into my ribs and pulsating heart.

Again, I feel the orbs that are buried into her porcelain skin erupt my beating heart into song and dance. When she looks at me like that, I feel as if her eyes are windows that I can look into and see my own heart in her soft, gentle hands. For my heart is her heart, for our souls are connected through thin twine that dances between us no matter how far apart we are. I look into her soul and see mine, as clear as a shining diamond, but my eyes can only grasp what everyone else’s can: the outward selection of feelings and emotions you choose to show, and your physical beauty that even a blind man could see. The outside world cannot see into your heart, and neither can I.