Piérre Ramon Thomas

His Eyes

by Piérre Ramon Thomas

His eyes are the concierge inviting me
Into the innermost places within him.
His eyes speak a language
My body is fluent in.
His eyes make plain his pain
When his ego tries to conceal it.
His eyes are the sweetest incarceration
I desire to never break free from.
His eyes are the only hands I want
Caressing me, undressing me, tenderly 
       and aggressively.
His eyes send me on expeditions
To understand the origins of him.
His eyes are the hieroglyphs I want to 
       decipher,
The mysteries I desire to solve.
His eyes are the windowpanes
Upon which I do not want the rain to 
       fall.
His eyes are my solar system
And naturally, I am his sun.
His eyes are the lips that cry, “Hold 
       me”,
When his mouth is too ashamed to 
       speak so vulnerably.
His eyes are the indicators I look to
When the stresses of life burden him so.
His eyes are the only wilderness
I aspire to get lost in.
His eyes are the safehouse I escape to
When the world sets its intent on 
       destroying me.
His eyes are my medicine
Whenever depression tries to engulf 
       me.
His eyes contain the elements of 
       dreams,
Shooing away the shadows of 
       nightmares.
His eyes are the French Provincial home 
       in which
I wish to spend the rest of my days.