Watching Bright Eyes

Exotic, model looks, a face of an aloof and cold angel.

But she is warm and bright, a beacon when she smiles.

 

She wears her hair in a ponytail, under a straw cowboy hat,

And a white tank top, tight denim jeans, and fancy boots.

 

I love hearing her talk, hearing her laugh, watching bright eyes.

I love the way those bright eyes alight upon my hidden face.

 

Southern accent, slow and proud drawl, I don’t hear even back home.

Southern accent, like a girl I knew long ago, who loved me so tender.

 

I want to love her wholly and unreservedly, without a thought of the moon.

I get lost in assumptions, shoot down my own best heart, assume the worst.

 

I leave the bar, to get air, or go home, or call down some angel who could be bothered.

She comes out to me, asks if I’m okay. I insist I am. She doesn’t believe me, give a hug.

 

I want her to stay with me, in this cool night, beneath the stars and think not of the moon.

I want to talk to her, know her for real, and not as an angel and flickering flame of dream.

 

She watches me for a moment, sad eyes and worried smile, and she goes back to the bar.

I get lost in assumptions, shoot down my own best heart, assume the worst.

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