He had beautiful, deep black eyes. And in the depths of her eyes, she was tender. Sweet and tender.
By a nervous tic or by charm, their eyes blinked maliciously, in a measured rhythm. He had beautiful eyes that looked me in the face.
One day, I don’t know if by a more daring look, I don’t know if by a little carelessness or by a little more wantonness, my eyes stopped in his eyes and we stayed there, disconcerted. Both. Then, as if by magic, we found each other. There, in that place that remained as being eternal in my dreams. I made it a secret and I don’t say no.
Over time, we almost stopped talking. We just looked at each other. Thus, we discovered in us minutiae that we did not know. And our eyes were increasingly talking, asking ourselves. I like you very much, a look said. I missed you, answered the other look, as if joking. And with each affection, they became entangled. Not out of shame for a kiss. Not out of shyness. But they interlocked to better feel their lips on their lips and dream more.
He had beautiful eyes, a deep black of tender tenderness and malice.
How am I without them? So, so …