Your eyes

Your eyes Your eyes, my lady, are not an ornate sky blue, nor an enchanted forest green. But rather, a deep brown, like the wine of dawn, or like the black liquor of the East, that awakens the body and afflicts the chest. In them burns a discreet flame, that consumes me in silence; they are a source of memories, and each glance of yours is a cup, from which I drink and never get enough. Oh sweet torment, eyes that do not grant sleep, but rather hold me captive, like a faithful servant to his lady, lost in the taste of your eternal coffee.