Your eyes are unfair, honestly. They should come with a warning sign somewhere. Because every single time I look into them, my brain forgets how to function properly. One second I’m normal, the next I’m staring like someone who just discovered poetry for the first time. Your eyes carry entire universes in them— soft galaxies, sleepy midnights, the kind of warmth that makes people stay longer than they planned to. And it’s silly, really, how two tiny circles can ruin me completely. When you look at me, I suddenly understand why people write love songs, why old couples still hold hands, why the moon gets compared to someone’s face even when the moon did absolutely nothing to deserve that compliment. Your eyes laugh before your mouth does. They sparkle when you’re pretending not to smile, and narrow dramatically when you’re annoyed, which, unfortunately for me, still looks adorable. I think your eyes are secretly thieves. They stole my attention first, then my peace, then my ability to act cool around you. Now I trip over words, forget what I was saying, and stare at you like a confused golden retriever who just got called a good boy. And maybe love is exactly this— memorizing the shade of someone’s eyes like it’s your favorite place in the world. Because yours feel like home. A slightly chaotic, heart-racing, butterflies-everywhere kind of home… but home anyway.