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Through the Window

I look at her through the window,

Of her 11th floor red bricked apartment,

The hydrangeas bloom in their vivid colours,

But the only colour I look for,

Is of her eyes –

Pitch black.

As if she cannot see anything,

As if no one can see inside her.

They’re like her shield,

Laying off anyone who tries to get a glimpse at her soul.

They’re like her sword,

Killing anyone with just one look.

I look at her through the window,

She looks right back at me,

Making a shiver go down my spine,

How can one hold contact,

With those sniper-like eyes,

When all you know is,

She can see right through you,

Reading your mind like a novel,

Smiling at your awkwardness.

But, all you can see is darkness,

Of the entire cosmos,

She carries in her eyes,

Collecting it from every corner,

Like souvenirs,

Of heartbreak and sadness,

No one else wants to carry anymore.

I look at her through the window,

Of her eyes,

To glimpse at her soul,

Assuming it to be as dark as her eyes,

Only to find,

The same hydrangeas blooming in the most vivid colours ever.

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