People joke that brown eyes are full of poop. Blue and green are placed on a pedestal, and I too, was guilty of this.

Blue eyes are beautiful like ocean water, like the sky. Green eyes like grass.

But have you ever seen brown eyes get hit with sunlight? A beautiful shade of amber, of honey, of flecks of gold.

Absolutely beautiful on his face speckled with freckles. His face has always been my favorite part of his appearance, and I hope that maybe, just maybe, I’ll get the chance to see him again.

blue.

the sort of blue that promises silence.

your stare scared me at first. there was something so honest about it. i wasn't used to that sort of honesty. it had been a long winter.

my own eyes had experienced a lot of tears. warm and salty, falling onto a cold floor. i was tired, so tired.

but you managed to save me.

it couldn't have been anyone, it had to be you. the right place, the right time. it could have never happened.

i know that this won't last forever.

but maybe it will last for a little while.

Eyes do everything for us, without them we wouldn't be able to see, especially the people we love. Sometimes I wonder though, why skin matters over eye color. Eye color isn't judged, it's just there. The clouded blue of the afternoon sky, or the rustic brown of a worn out barn in the foothills of Tennessee.

The black of the sky without stars, and the green of a forest in the summer. They can tell us what someone is feeling if we look close enough, and aren't we supposed to do that instead of hurting people out of disrespect? Yes.

In the mirror, his eyes speak with green life: hope and wonder which don’t match his emotional state. They say eyes are the windows of the soul, but they’re really just the tools your body uses to see, and his eyes are excellent liars. Everyone always says he has pretty eyes, shining and green. They gloss over the death his soul is experiencing. It’s a compound death that has multiplied exponentially over time. He smiles sardonically at the life in his shining green eyes. Those pretty green eyes of death.

Sometimes I look at my eyes and do not recognize them. They shift in color - blue, green, gray - depending on my mood. Sometimes I see a storm in them, gathering strength, quiet but urgent. Other times I see rolling fields of grass swaying in the breeze, endless possibility. When you have fickle eyes, the only thing that remains constant is the space behind them. There, your memories steer the helm of your body. Most times I cannot control the direction of the sails, so I look to the mirror, my eyes like beacons, warning of what’s to come.

I never could quite distinguish the color of his eyes; they were deep-set and small, almost beady, and the light was always either too dim or too bright to allow for such details to be noticed. I should have known then not to trust such eyes. He was always winking too, as though he had a secret he wanted to tell me. Looking back, it's almost as though he couldn't bear to meet my gaze directly. I could not tell what color his eyes were, but I can't forget the glint of shame in them. I sorely wish I could.

The knock startled me from my solitary supper. I rose and peered outside. On my doorstep stood a slight woman with a cloak wrapped tightly around her to ward off the rain. Under the shelter of the awning, she pushed back her cowl, allowing me to see her eyes. They were a rich mahogany, eyes which had seen and survived a century's worth of hurt, eyes which drew you in, not solely because of their beauty, but also because of the depth of knowledge within.

I quarreled with myself, desperately wanting both to show her in and leave her out.

I sink into the abyss of his eyes, drowning in deep chestnut waves. I feel like I could wander them with the map that I've charted from the many times I've caught myself staring and still become lost in them for days. Eyes so dark that I could fall into them forever; until the sun hits them just right and suddenly his eyes dance with rays of honey. Near-black irises turn to beautiful opalescent nebulas of amber and gold, dancing with the stars contained within. Streaks of gold whirl, like dandelions and marigolds in an ocean of coffee.

She’s done it again. I’ve fallen under the captivating spell found in the endless depths of her eyes. I’m transfixed by the mirth, dark brown that dances on the edges of the iris. I know I’m being teased, but I can’t help but laugh along. She places her smiling face delicately within the palms of her hands, dark skin and gold jewelry catching the sunlight. “I love you,” I say without preamble. Her charmingly intense eyes widen slightly the same way they always do when she hears those words. Someday soon, I pray, they’ll soften in understanding and acceptance.

Luke was tired of people commenting upon his appearance. It was his peculiar eyes, one green, one blue; that was the cause of their curiosity. There was a name for the condition. Heterochromia. Just a word. A label.

‘You’re a freak, boy. Don’t forget it.’ Uncle Harold had whispered those words into his ear, as he had stood, dry-eyed, watching the bearers lower his father’s coffin into the gaping maw in the ground.

Luke looked up at his uncle, and his eyes burned with cold anger. ‘I won’t,’ he promised himself. ‘And I won’t forget you telling me so. Ever.’