It overtakes me.

If there was one thing I wish could be carried in my heart forever, it would be the way her eyes reflected light. There was never any doubt among us: they were the saddest eyes we had ever seen, not full and bursting like the girls in the black and white movies, but deep pools of suppressed tears that looked a thousand directions in a minute but never allowed any objects to register. Perhaps what I mean to say is that it broke all of our hearts, the way she skipped impassively over the world. The light, though, was what stole my heart. She wasn't content to simply let it reflect her iris, constricting her pupils; she must add to the light with those concentric green flecks that never failed to remind me that no matter how strong I was, she was still the center of the universe.

I had never seen blue eyes with green flecks, and now, in retrospect, I can shamelessly admit that it was an infatuation. She brought those eyes to bear like a 50-caliber machine gun: almost languidly, as though they bore such weight that I would be pinned to the wall if our eyes made contact. They were what made me lay on grenades. I remember one morning, she was lying on her back; the off-white window blinds were no match for the inexorable Sunday morning sun. I had woken moments earlier, and she was squinting, rubbing her eyes with as much a scowl as her upbringing would permit. I leaned in close and pulled her to my chest, out of the sun, and felt such a relief when her features softened, giving way to the untouched creme of her skin that felt like Innocence to my lips. It was an uncharacteristically tender act; one that had never happened before and has never been repeated, as I have harbored a certain shame about showing such deep affection for women after she left.