A girl with colored eyes wandered into my days,
quiet at first, but still shifting my ways.
I didn’t expect her to matter, not so soon—
yet her glance changed something in me like a sudden monsoon.
The first time I saw her, the world slowed down,
a tiny pause, soft as light on a quiet town.
I didn’t breathe; I didn’t dare try—
her presence felt like color brushed across the sky.
She speaks with a spark that settles in my chest,
a warmth that makes my restless thoughts finally rest.
And suddenly I’m dreaming scenes I can’t defend,
little fake moments where we feel real in the end.
We share the same loves—food, long talks, lazy days,
wandering through small streets in our own drifting ways.
Laughing at nothing until our thoughts unwind,
moments that stay long after we leave them behind.
But she’s a bad texter—always vague, always slow,
answers short enough to make me guess instead of know.
I stare at the screen, unsure what to say,
wondering if I’m wanted or just filling her day.
She disappears sometimes with her friend, far from me,
and I’m left wondering what we are, or if we’ll ever be.
Still, when she’s alone, my name is the one she calls,
and I show up every time, even if the doubt still falls.
I don’t know my place in her world still forming,
but she means more to me than I ever saw coming.
She’ll never know the quiet space she occupies in me—
a place that hopes, softly, for what we could be.