Your eyes aren’t the color of chocolate
soil or silt
or boring like you claim
they’re mahogany wood and honey
warmth and light
or dappled oaks
and they don’t look away
even when my heart caves
under their heaviness
I read your face like a poem
late at night
doubling back and again
stuck and gasping at one verse
one word
one cheek bone
wondering
how many ways one could interpret you.
Yvaine is better than you 
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