The Way You Look

Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of it,

When the light hits just right:

A translucent reflection.

It shows me,

For a warm and familiar minute,

A strange eye floating

In the space between two windows:

The window to my soul

And the window to my window.

It looks at me,

All brown and wrinkled,

Like elephant skin.

It winks at me 

Without a partner.

It's so close, I find myself marveling,

"Surely, it can't be this big?

Just some trick of optics, perhaps?"

But then I remember you,

How close you are when I feel you breathe,

And how you can barely look me in the eye.

And I remember how large your eyelids are

When they show themselves to me,

Shy and protective,

Then a 

Flash

Of an unprotected eye.

I lie here now,

Seeing some shadow of what you see

When you're here, so close to me.

And I think, for the very first time,

I know why you look away.