Eye Contact

It's fascinating that the
windows to the soul
require an anatomy lesson.
Brown as sweet as chocolate
pools in the iris.
A silent awareness that I'm drowning
in the deepest, purest black 
doesn't save me from tumbling
head first into your pupils.

(My pupils: I hope someday to teach them the meaning of love.)

The lens lets light in.
The retina then snatches the light and speeds it to the brain,
converting and creating,
stamping images on the surface.

Something about me...
I crave touch.
So if eye contact is what I can get
I'll take it.

I want you to dip into your iris and once your soul's color has 
stained your gaze
caress me with it.
Enfold me in the black of your
eyes' centers until 
I breathe it in and back out
like a tide.
I know I don't have a halo but take whatever light you can
and I pray that your retina will
print me on your mind's edge.

I try not to intrude on your soul's privacy but you should know that
I've tapped on the window
and tip-toed on the sill.
Maybe one of these days
You'll welcome me in.