a study on brown eyes

All the years of autumn crashing down in a flash,

midnight coffee creamed with the moon

morning coffee rising from the tender nights of grounded beans

a friend’s trench coat embracing my chair, 

my favourite.

 

Hidden in its pocket

was the brown paper bag home to a muffin we shared 

from the cafe-

honey poured inside my tea,

brownie crumbs try to kiss me- some miss me

my fingers whisper to the wooden table once used to be with a tree.

hot cocoa stains all over,

my favourite.

 

Take me to museums preserving folklore,

lay in Hammershøi’s Interior, Sunlight on the Floor,

passing by brown frames longing to be set foot in-

tell me, how did these painters in history begin? 

let’s go to the library-

in between mahogany bookshelves,

aged papers bind timeless stories 

exhumed from the past

or unravelling twine strings of fate from the future

ready to be tugged.

all these places,

my favourite.

 

Suddenly, 

I hear 

crashing waves of harmonies,

snowflake staccatos,

music is happening-

the violin chirps upon a shoulder branch,

the cello whispers Le Cygne,

there sits a wooden piano of deliverance,

beauty even in the dissonance-

my favourite. 

 

so tell me,

why aren’t brown eyes beautiful,

when aged papers, 

hidden books to discover, 

die for its ink colour?

 

***