I'm looking into eyes that are brown, sort of like bark.
Like a thriving tree, but an aged tree.
Filled with knowledge and wisdom that few know exists
And most never will.

I'm staring at your neck, which I've always found oddly pretty.
And I can practically sense the softness with my eyes.
And I'm wondering things.
Wondering if there are bad people.

And if I know any of them.

I force myself not to ask you.
Because you probably have an answer that would put mine to shame.
And I think:
I'll probably be better off not knowing.

I'm staring at your shirt.
At laughing inwardly because I only just noticed what you are wearing.
Because it's generally an insignificant detail.
That I'm suddenly-laughably-trying to preserve.

I'm looking at your hands.
And noticing the difference between our fingers.
A difference I've noticed before.
But one that I still find interesting.

I'm tracing the stitch of your jeans.
And noticing they're the ones I like.
And chuckling-in my head-of course
At a memory once ago.

Then I'm staring at your shoes,
Shoes that are facing each other.
I think it's cute,
But you hate it.

I'm wondering what you're thinking about.
I'm wondering if you'll tell me.
And if I really want to know.

I don't think I do.

"What are you thinking about?"
"Us."

And I nod, because I already know.
And I'm thinking the same thing.

I can feel the tears building in my tear ducts
And I can see them building in yours.

And I'm staring at your eyes.
They're brown, sort of like a tree
Only three times older
Four times as knowledgeable

And twice as alive.