Ramblings on motorcycles, tattoos, alternative everything, politics, war and life in New York City.

Your Eyes

 

       

                          snow, ice, the rasp of the skis beneath my feet, fleeting, ephemeral, passing like time past the serene faces of slumbering children, the whispering scent of the pine trees clothing the silent hills, a blue sky above, limitless and unknowable and perfect,

             like your eyes

                I’m flying, silently, carving signatures on the steep side of the mountain, following gravity and the wind and you.  Here I simply will it, and the earth slides beneath me, spinning and turning with an arctic chuckle.  I slide to a pirouetting halt, amid a rasping shower of diamonds, to watch you zip by, a blurred glimpse of ponytails and a flashing smile,

                And your eyes

            Sharp, piercing, a flash of azure that takes the breath from my lips swifter than any January wind, and I turn to chase your laughter down into the waiting valley below.  Even trapped on the chair lift, quickly freezing and contemplating a jump to the run below, my eyes were continually drawn to yours—starburst eyelashes, the exquisite slash of your eyebrows, and that impossibly electric burst of blue when your gaze met mine.  It wasn’t just the cut of the wind that was making me shiver.

                Your eyes

         haunt me–lying in bed, chasing sleep down twisting tunnels of midnight insomnia; working out in the gym, pressing iron amid the supplement high and Ipod-charged adrenalin; riding my Harley down frigid city streets, the cold sun blazing between the steel mountains, the World unraveling beneath my wheels, and yet, behind it all, the memory of your face, half glimpsed in darkened bars, intoxication more heady than any gulped shot of liquor, and far more addictive. 

                Your eyes….

 

                                        feel like hope

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