She has short hair. Cute. She has a small nose. Cute. Everything else adds to the delicate nature of who she is.
Her head is turned away when she speaks to you. She knows you're there. She's not trying to be rude. That's just how she is. She would nod, without looking at you. But then, for a split second, as if she doesn't want to seem rude, she turns her head and before continuing turning to look away from you in the other direction, her eyes acknowledges you, even nods a little.
Maybe she can't keep a gaze. Maybe that's just something one culture does and another doesn't.
Her eyes are dark, not eerily dark, but dark enough to hide whatever it is you might be looking for, and you're looking for something.
The answer to who she is, perhaps.
She smiles, very genuinely, like everything else she does. But still, you want to know more. It doesn't help if you try to fix your gaze at her. She simply won't hold it. She will continue talking to you without really looking at you. So you don't see all her eyes. You can't attempt to pierce it and find the treasure of answers you're looking for. The dark, think eyebrows above each eye are like sentinels, drawing your attention along with some awe and respect for them.
Yet, you don't want to look too long. You know it's rude to stare.
But where are the answers? If not in the eyes. Her cheeks are pink and have a soft glow. Her lips are thin but they weave a mesmerizing note each time she speaks.
How is it that someone with such frank and sincere demeanor could have answers you don't know? How does one hide something that should not be of interest to anyone who can't see it?
For a split second, she looks at you, intently, while you're talking, and you feel shy. And you are the one looking away. You are the one being vulnerable now, talking and talking. She doesn't keep her gaze long, looking away again while you're talking. The mysterious light that has brought you to this land and continues to do so is always a few steps away from reach.
With no luck at the gates of her eyes, you inspect your surroundings. She stands in front of you. You can feel her presence, her warmth, you can even sense her scent, natural, but forbidden as well. You can see the olive color tone of her skin that shows itself from her neck to her shoulders. But it's like gazing at a majestic mountain; you can write all the poetry you wish, paint with all the skills of a master, but you still can't enter into the secrets of the mountain. Especially if you can't scale it.
But even if you can. Suppose you can, in your wildest fantasies. Her eyes won't necessarily open up for you. Her dark, think eyebrows won't step aside to give you your grand entrance into her realm of the poetry that defines her, the poetry that is constantly changing.
So from this side of the valley, you can gaze at the beauty that is she, contemplate the mystery that is her, make guesses about what she's thinking, how she's feeling, her desires, her wishes. But in the end, you're an outsider, no matter how much she smiles at you with the deepest sincerity, how much confides in you about everything she feels safe to share, how ready she is to listen to you. None would open the gates. And while the mountain will loom constantly with you as long as you wish, you would continue on to a different path, explore other peaks. But every now and then you turn around, you see her beauty that embodies the answers you can't have, and you can't help but smile too, feeling safe that you're being watched with a pure heart, even if you can't always see her eyes looking at you.
