Poetry For Her Eyes Novels & Stories

To be honest, my libido went up, causing irregular pulses in several parts of my body. We arrived at a room. A woman with horns and red eyes flashed, intercepted. "A new girl again?" She asked. "She's not a prisoner for you to take her soul," Kevin argued without answering the horned woman's question. "So she's not my meal candidate?" I started to get goosebumps. Meal candidate? So the horned girl was going to eat me and Jack brought me here on purpose to... “Jack… who is that woman?” I whispered. “She is… she is… my wife….”

I was not huge on poetry, but Rilke was a complete genius with his words, and I would be an idiot to ignore that genius. ‘Put out my eyes, and I can see you still. Slam my ears too, and I can hear you yet; And without any feet can go to you; And tongueless, I can conjure you at will.’ Hmm. What did it mean though? Well, the beginning of it explained the dreamscape. She tried to leave me deaf and defenseless. However, I could still see through her façade. I flipped to the end of the book where Papa would always leave me notes as a kid. He always enjoyed my love of learning and would leave his thoughts and suggestions at the end.

Each beat of her heart answers mine, each silence becomes speech. And in this slowness, I rediscover faith. Not in God, nor in the world—in her. In us. I look at her. Her eyes are open, full of light. And I understand: she belongs to no one. She loves me, but she is free. And it is thus that I love her too. LYRA The moon has risen higher. The room is bathed in an almost white clarity. Our shadows mingle on the wall, inseparable. The sea, outside, slowly calms.

You know, I’d like to brush your hair when things go ugly, as in when a tsunami hits the seawall and there’s no one to fix your hair out of fear. I will celebrate your eyes’ uncalculated blink as it might change the season from tinder-parched mornings to being 84 and still writing you poems. You know, I’d like to see you cry, laugh at people off to work, because you’re edged to clear the skies of jinx and throat-clogged pretensions. The paddling mallards, oh, I want to count

She says before her eyes flickered to light, “It always felt this way, the stabbing just deepened.” She notice the silence and didn't realize the strangest that just happened in earlier moment. She find the man beside her lose in a deepest of thought. Able to see closely his eyes that everyone thought was a curse, her heart heavy for unknown reason. “If you haven't know this or you just forgotten,” she said the words as if to reminisce something. The moment though it uttered, she as if lose to the feeling that was strange. “I did told you that I always dream the kind of you. There you once comfort me, and always carry the pitiful me. Your eyes especially...” Her hand this time shaken to reac

The eighth was at Kolkata Airport smoking zone. If you see her, give her this poem: There’s that fireball in the south-west, in a homeward spree, wondering “What now, at the end of the day? I say in jest, “You and me!” I turn away from the yellow shroud: and it’s your hazel-eyes I see. Sleep woken or dream broken, entangled or untangled, love burnt or hate soaked, praised here or blamed there, dealt with or dealt in

Only she can drive these intense shifts of feelings to me. It was strange having to hear about me from her. The honesty of it all, her interest, it was too surreal to think she’d given me that enough thought. “Maybe I find you paradoxical and intriguing because your eyes are melancholic if not intense. Those two hardly come at the same time. If one is tough, often he is only steel, unwavering. But you, sometimes you’re the danger of a hurricane but sometimes you’re also the comfort of a good day.” As if an ending to her poetry, she threw a glance at me, a period after such a compelling ode.

I gulped back the questions of who exactly 'he' was when she leaned in, entranced by my said eyes, and apparently, unaware of the position she was putting herself in. "I can see a sunflower, a bright big one that's smiling under the summer sun. Either that, or it's like a Kaleidescope of the sun and moon eclipsing, a mirror within a mirror. And like moondust, as if Selene herself is hiding in their depths, there are flecks of gold..." She spoke like a poet, unaware of the magic her words wove into my heart. She made my eyes sound like one of a kind, but before this moment, I've never thought that. They were just a pair of hazel eyes, nothing more. She spoke as though she's never seen her own

My husband, Victor Moretti, is the Don of the most powerful Mafia family in New York. Everyone knows he loves me more than his own life. But no one knows how many things his love forbids. He never lets me swim because he says my eyes are too sensitive to chlorine. He never lets me touch a gun because the smell of gunpowder and the recoil would hurt me. When I tell him I want a tattoo, he refuses that too. “I love every inch of your skin,” he says. “I don’t want anything covering it.” But anyone who has known me for long knows I grew up by the sea. Diving has always been what I’m best at. And getting a tattoo has been at the top of my bucket list for as long as I can remember. That afternoon,

The only other thing that felt as ridiculous as that to me was when Jordan told me, "Josie needs a pair of eyes. Why won't you help her, Hazel?" "Why do you need my corneas for this? What makes her deserve this?" His expression turned ugly when he saw that I was mad. "She doesn't have friends or family, and she's lost her vision at such a young age. What do you expect her to do?" His tone had softened. "You're not the same as her, Hazel. You have me—I'll be your eyes. I'll hire someone to care for you and never leave you." It was mocking to me how serious he looked. "So, her vision matters, but mine doesn't?"