The Boy with the Blue Eyes

Sometimes, when I look at him, he looks back at me.

Right at me. Through me, into me.

It’s like his gaze sees into my head, rendering my thoughts and dreams,

Little neural connections and zips of electricity,

Into glass. Water.

He’s not seeing me anymore --

He’s seeing, or looking for, or connecting with something that isn’t just me.

It’s more of me. Its not surface-me.

It’s daydreaming me.

It’s little-girl me, and geek me.

It’s the me that belts into an empty house, or

Cooks food for my family.

It’s the rock-climbing, brook-running,

Stone-throwing, mud-digging,

Sushine-grabbing, firefly-catching me.

It’s me.

His eyes just reach down and pull up all of my me’s.

Or...maybe they answer the call.

Maybe they run to the surface all on their own, my me’s.

That girl with flying brown hair and overalls,

Scrambling up and over the pages of my life.

The one with a net,

Trailing stream water and summer behind her.

Daydreaming girl,

With wide eyes and a bright smile,

Carrying the one with round cheeks and even bigger eyes.

They all call to the rest,

Beckoning the girl who trips every few steps,

Laughing all the while.

They scramble past the years,

Pulling along the one with the books,

The quiet girl trailing behind,

Unsure yet of how she fits in with the rest, but drawn all the same.

They all answer the call,

Bounding to the surface to crowd around,

Joining the girl who has always been there, waiting.

They are all here;

Peering out,

Hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy with the blue eyes.

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