Silvery Starlight

She walks through the door. Eyes blue. Hair brown. Lips pink and soft. But he sees so much more than that.

He sees her glide into the room. Eyes clear and blue. They must see straight into his soul. Hair deep, wooden brown but flowing like water. Lips that seem to be on the verge of saying the unspeakable. That she loves him. But then they seem to think better of it, and laugh and smile instead, leaving him hopelessly thinking about looking right into those eyes and running his hands through that hair, and being the reason those lips are smiling.

What he doesn't know is how she sees herself.

She walks through the door, an obvious limp. Head drooped. Back arched. Eyes not blue, but clear, clear with unshed tears. Hair brown. Like the mud. Dirt. Where she belongs. Lips closed tightly. Never going to open. Ever. Never going to say what she wants to.

She sees herself sit down in a chair in the corner. Invisible. Faded. Part of the wall behind her. He sees her take her throne, simple but elegant. He wishes that one day, she might sit down not alone, but next to him. She wishes she were brave enough to.

Today the man standing in front of the room notices her. Sing, he says.
She stands there mutely, frozen, acute of all the eyes watching her. Then she meets his eyes. Big. Icy blue. But warm, sky blue. Trusting. She meets his eyes, and sees his lips smile, and then she does it, she smiles at him and his jaw drops. He was the reason she smiled.

But that's not all.

The man at the front of the room repeats himself. Sing, he says. So she does.
And when she opens her mouth, sound as smooth as silvery starlight emerges. He stares at her, in awe of her voice, deep and beautiful like her night sky eyes.

"I'm the colorless sunrise, I'm never good enough. I'm the wind that's in your hair and ruffles you up," She's looking right at him now, straight into his soul in those light blue eyes. He feels naked, like she sees everything with that dark gaze of hers.

"If you could find a reason, you could let me know, I won't blame you, I'll just turn and go,"

"I'm coming home to you, every night, every night, every night, I'm coming home to you, every night, every night, every night,"

"My mind is made up, nothing can change that, I'm coming home to you every night, every night, every night," He stands up and joins her for the last part of the chorus, but when he looks for her she's already gone, run out the door. This time, he's the one who walks with an obvious limp. Head drooped. Back arched. Eyes not blue, but clear, clear with unshed tears.

"I can hardly stand myself, so what am I to you?" he sings softly, to her retreating back, aware of all the eyes watching his painful heart crack in half. What he doesn't know is how she feels.

Torn in half. Why? Why did she do that? Why didn't she just leave, mumble an excuse, do anything the old her would have? Why did she do that? He must hate her now. He must. Why wouldn't he?

Torn in half, and the other half's with her.
Why? Why did she do that? When she looked at him. When she opened his mouth. And when she sang right to him. Why? Why would she bother with someone like him? She must hate him now. She must. Why wouldn't she?

No matter how much pain stabs her, shards of glass, her heart sews itself back again. And the threads are his hair, pure and light. And the glue is his smile, holding her together. And the only way it's persuaded to stay that way is his voice, so deep and warm, caring. Not that he cares about her.

But something keeps her coming back, and the next day she walks back into that room, right past the man in the front, right past all those eyes, different colors, some blue, but none his light blue color. She walks all the way to the back of the room where her chair is.

Of course. Life will continue as it always does, her in the back ignoring the unworthy. Like him.

Then yet another miracle in the past few days. She pulls the chair away from the corner, away from the wall, into the center of the room where there is only one other person. Him. He sits there, watching, as she drags the metal folding chair across the scratched wooden floors, and when it comes to a screeching halt next to him, he can't say he had no idea. This. This is his dream, his paradise, his utopia as simple as two chairs, two people, one heart.

She sits down and smiles at him, no words needed. And he smiles back.