His eyes

His eyes turn inward, deep within.
Even when he looks at me, I am only a detail to him.
His gaze is elsewhere, drawn within.

Where? On himself.
Always inward. Guarding a treasure.

He lives within himself, sealed within.
His lips are tightly closed.
How many tongues lie behind them, unknown?
Nothing escapes. Nothing is shown.

What does he guard so fiercely, alone?
That bushy moustache seems made to erase the mouth, to make it gone.
What treasure lies hidden behind it, unknown?

When he looks at me, he does not see my skin.
He looks beneath it, into what lies within.
As if an entire universe were compressed into his gaze,
As if infinity itself were gathered within.

The universe does not care for my shell,
but for the existence hidden in the shell.
And so his gaze leaves me naked,
stripped of the outer, exposed within.

He is internalized to that extent.
He is elevated to that extent.
So far inward,
so far above,
so far within.

― Atrona Grizel