I want to say something nice. But words are not enough - bizarre, cheesy, meaningless, shallow, heavy, pointless, suffocating...words. Your eyes aren't typically what I would go for - brown. They are at times muddy...like a bruise...sometimes dark chocolate, latte, sugar...brown. When I look at them I feel like falling in a very mysterious place. In a deep, gloomy forest, full of wise owls; in a jungle full of predators and yet in the desert...where a small, but lifesaving Oasis has been created somehow. So, so brown! Strong coffee, for a person running for miles. Ah, your eyes are perfectly brown!
I wonder how - after seeing everything, after selling my soul for pennies...before forever after and after something more - when looking at you, my heart smiles, in that modest teenage boyish way. Too shy to say something more than "Howdy!", too shy to ask you for your name. And I see you every single day! To be ashamed, that all the courage in my elderly bones, sinks down to my ankles, to disappear in my expensive crocodile skin shoes. When passing by your workplace everyday with the bus, or when occasionally walking through the door. You are always there - gracefully shining, so bright! And among you thorns and weed and crap, ah it really suits you! To be a diamond in the mud, so that everyone above can enjoy their power, yet realize the weakness - you are a diamond and the rest is pure mud. I have been observing you for so long, should be sentenced for stalking, charged with "unhealthy obsession" and found guilty for a lifetime...for not being brave enough to fight for your attention.
Your eyes aren't typically what I would go for - brown, but being so sinfully bright while glancing at me, with a touch of a smile in them - just a pinch...lovely! And under them dark circles most of the time. Sometimes almost covered, sometimes obvious to the eye, you seem like a vampire. Drinking from people's lust and wrong desire, sleeping to be done in another life and ah, pale skin like porcelain. So breakable, as it seems - but for the long-time observer you are made of steal. Don't ask me why. Call it prejudice, love from 1st sight. I leave you tips when I can, while you run to serve another hundred thousand men. And however rarely it happens...every now and again I wonder is that smile in your burning, piercing, dreamy eyes - for me, or for the customer...But I tell myself it must be for me, I deserve it, have fairly earned it and the most important - your natural expression is a smile.
Your hands! Short nails, without a manicure. Long, thin fingers, burned in several places. When I trace your hands up to the elbows there are numerous scars to be found, wounds, bruises, old and new and bleeding and healed and gorgeous! I know you are very proud of them - like tattoos, they present your life - a train full of big and small obstacles, problems, hurricanes and more kissable porcelain skin in between!
You stay in the most wonderful place I can think of and are being attacked by the rudest, most vicious and unfortunately most normal drunkies, junkies, and monkeys. I have seen you cry, with that silent helpless anger all curled up in a single tear which will never fall in front of public. But that can be seen sparkling for long time in your eyes, while you calmly do what you have to. While everyone has to leave satisfied...in order to come back, you try and try and try...your best not to shout, not to fall and to be good with all the bad - how do you that? Not sure I want to know the secret, not sure how you are always working so hard. I am scared to imagine your past - was it happy or was it sad? Was it better...no it couldn't have been if you are doing this...but how? And when and why just swirl and sway in my mind, sometimes under the sounds of a waltz, sometimes just doing zumba. Furthermore I ask myself about your mum and dad? Do you speak to them, do you provide them well? Are your features their copy or a much upgraded version? When seeing you through the bus window, doing what you do - I wonder what do you think of at that moment? When looking you closer I want to ask you if you dream? Why are you doing this to yourself if so, are you proud of it?...ah yes, of course you are!
One time after long hesitation I asked you about your name and you've warned me that its absolutely unpronounceablе. When seeing me fed up and bitterly disappointed you gently whisper "it means Beauty" . Ha-ha what a wonderful name, "So can I call you Lady, my lady?" I ask in a bit cheeky and old-school flirtation way. No doubt thousands have done that before me, but I don't care. As she rolls her eyes in the sense "oh my" her lips pronounce "OK" and I move on to make place for the next one in the queue.
Young in heart, my 70 years instantly evaporate in the light shower rain as do all of my concerns, problems and deep philosophical dilemmas. When I look at those eyes - fire brown in nature, milk chocolate by impression and rainbow in reality time disappears. I am absolutely in love with her boyish hairstyle, no makeup and all natural look. With her iconic martyr expression beyond the courtesy smile. I am in love with the idea that these 14-15 year-old hands can carry the problems of the world and survive and look beyond them. I am in love, my Lady. I know you love me too...