It was much too dark to see the colour of our eyes. And even if it weren’t so dark, it’s rather unlikely we’d have noticed that we indeed had eyes, much less the colour, shape and size. If they were thickly lashed or if they were, like drying palm fronds in the peak of a really cruel summer. If they laughed or if they were secretive or if they like glass mirrors, bounced off light that if we didn’t watch out, could sear you and cut you deep, maybe in half. It was much too dark to register the promise or gauge the lie or measure the possibilites. We didn’t know if we were beautiful or simply hideous. We were oblivious to the bits of each other stuck between our teeth or seeping out of our eyes or drooling down our chins; if we were clothed or butt naked - for all to see. To see! To see! Did we want to see? See beyond this velvet blindfold that scrunched our separate universes into a two-dimensioned world? One side You. Other side Me. Us. See beyond this warm womb of unreal hopes, where we slept tucked under blankets of expectation?
We slept with eyes wide open with dreams. Dreams, that in the dark, were so vivid and vibrant, that we sometimes blinked in their fierceness. But never once did we see beyond this. Oh, it was splendid, for our lives, our futures, our very existence to be melded into this one circumstance. This so-called destiny. This self-created, do-it-yourself, myopic processor of fates - events that would fall to place, in assembly-line predictability. To have no past or future but this. The house we would buy, the children we would have, the house-of-cards fate we were investing our everything in. This forever and i-hope-ever. Our tongues twisted permanently into the shapes of sweet, delightful nothings. And syrupy sighs. And longing. Oh yes, longing. We were going around in circles, like dogs infatuated by their tails, following their own feral musk. Following our asses. But no matter that. This is what is meant to be. This is true. At least for now.
The darkness in our eyes, as deep as our happiness. The sheer magic of seeing nothing else, but us. Love certainly wasn’t blind. It certainly knew what it was doing and where it was going. It was us that were blinded by love.