In the mirror, his eyes speak with green life: hope and wonder which don’t match his emotional state. They say eyes are the windows of the soul, but they’re really just the tools your body uses to see, and his eyes are excellent liars. Everyone always says he has pretty eyes, shining and green. They gloss over the death his soul is experiencing. It’s a compound death that has multiplied exponentially over time. He smiles sardonically at the life in his shining green eyes. Those pretty green eyes of death.

I sink into the abyss of his eyes, drowning in deep chestnut waves. I feel like I could wander them with the map that I've charted from the many times I've caught myself staring and still become lost in them for days. Eyes so dark that I could fall into them forever; until the sun hits them just right and suddenly his eyes dance with rays of honey. Near-black irises turn to beautiful opalescent nebulas of amber and gold, dancing with the stars contained within. Streaks of gold whirl, like dandelions and marigolds in an ocean of coffee.

I focus on necks instead of eyes, so I cannot see the panic set underneath them. Hair swishes like a curtain, holding light back. Their eyes are LED lights, like that movie with aliens with the fighting scene in a bar. Dimming them is like pulling sunset closer to your heart, so they used up all their batteries on the first day. When they flood, we are swamped with pondweed and mud. When they look away, it is more painful, because I looked at all.

They are withered grey, like ancient olive branches trying to find their way back home.

People joke that brown eyes are full of poop. Blue and green are placed on a pedestal, and I too, was guilty of this.

Blue eyes are beautiful like ocean water, like the sky. Green eyes like grass.

But have you ever seen brown eyes get hit with sunlight? A beautiful shade of amber, of honey, of flecks of gold.

Absolutely beautiful on his face speckled with freckles. His face has always been my favorite part of his appearance, and I hope that maybe, just maybe, I’ll get the chance to see him again.

I'm shivering, wet, and soaked in mud. I immediately regret this decision. I mean, yes, I couldn't stand her, and at the time, we were having a lot of vodka cranberries. It seemed like an excellent idea, but now I don't think it was good. Who am I kidding? The idea was awful. Terrible actually. I love vodka and cranberry together. The tart with the sweetness of juice mixed together is so naughty but nice. I couldn't get enough. My gut wrenched at the sight of it. Everyone else was chatting away, but I couldn't help but stare silently. It was grey and stiff-looking. I didn't think bodies got so gross so fast. Was that usually a thing? I guess without blood and stuff, things shut down? I need to get it together. The cocaine, one pill, some powder of something, adrenaline, and vodka buzz was long gone, and it was just me now. I pretended to stretch as people looked my way, pointing my shoulder down to the ground and reaching my arm out, yawning, making an ahhh noise. I'm screwed.