Dear stranger
I've been thinking about the color of your eyes. I think they're golden but I'm not quite sure.
I sit back and look out my room's window.
It's 2 o'clock in the night and the moon's still shining bright but not as bright as your eyes.
I wonder why you never smile at me.
I wonder, oh, all I do is wonder.
I wonder of what might be and I wonder of you again.
I've been trying to paint but I still can't seem to get the exact shade of your eyes.
I could draw you my entire life yet the color wouldn't be right.
Would I ever show you my paintings?
Of how I've drawn you upon papers and pages, I know not.
I know not whether I'll ever be able to talk to you or ever be able to meet you but there is this voice in my head that keeps making me hope.
And perhaps I shall meet you.
Perhaps I shall be able to know the color of your eyes.
And perhaps I might be able to draw them alright.
I wonder when that'll be.
