Storybook Eyes

First
there is that
choke.
Slowly burning
at the bottom
of that soft throat.
Slowly it
floats up,
through your chin,
those soft,
fleshy mounds
of your lips,
the gentle cave
that leads up
to your
nose,
and it goes up
up and up,
over that straight
right angle
and splits.

One to
the right,
to the left.
To those
swirling,
trembling,
treacherous pools
of milk
and wood
with soft flecks of sunlight
engulfing a deep
black hole.

That black and white text of your soul.
Your storybook eyes.

Swirling.
Trembling.
Treacherous
pools.
Sinking,
pulling,
throwing
out
words,
one
by
one.

It seeps into
your eyes.
And they burn.
They singe.
They sizzle.
They tear.
They scream.
They yell.
They hurt.
They cry...
And out it spills.

Drip.
Drip.
Drip.

Drip.

Onto the nose.
Onto the
soft cleft between
your nose and lips.
Into the opening
between your lips.
They dive off
your chin.
Into the colourful
exuberance
of the soft fabric
Made in India.
Wash in cold water.
Tumble dry.
Do not iron.
Treat with care.