“His gaze is fixed on me: calm, unflappable; 2 buckets of river water at midnight. I'd like to cry into his eyes.”

“His eyes are two buckets of rainwater: deep, fresh, clear. Hurt.”

“I peek up at his features, at the crooked grin i want to savor, at the color in his eyes i'd use to paint a million pictures.”

“I want to study the secrets tucked between his elbows and the whispers caught behind his knees. I want to follow the lines of his silhouette with my eyes and the tips of my fingers. I want to trace rivers and valleys along the curved muscles of his body.”

“It's only when he finds my face that he meets my gaze; I step into the sea of blue in his eyes, dive right in and drown.”

“He's staring at me like he's never seen me before. I want to wash my soul in the bottomless blue of his eyes.”

“Sir, can you hear me?" Another cry. But this time, a voice I don't detest."Sire, please, can you hear me-""I've been shot, Delalieu," I manage to say. I open my eyes. Look into his watery ones. "I haven't gone deaf.”