Gray. Gray eyes stare back at me in the mirror. Gray like the graphite doodles on my math homework, like the tremble of rolling thunder. My eyes are not the kind of beautiful that you gush to your best friends about. They are a simple, silent symphony of muted tones overpowering the quiet wisps of blue. Wisps of blue only he can find.

Blue. The kind of blue that makes you weak in the knees. The same blues that surround the sun on the brightest of summer days. His eyes are the coursing currents of a river, but when I look at him they are soft like a trickling stream in a meadow. His eyes are the ones that authors write about in their romantic novels, but I have yet to find an author that can describe the twinkle in his eyes when he laughs. Meticulously placed lashes frame his eyes like the Mona Lisa. Wispy strands of green intertwine their fingers in the strong hands of blue. Green strands like a map, a map that marks the paths he’s taken to me. He has eyes that can wrap me up and take the words right from my mouth. He holds a blinding beauty beyond words.