Eyes of Youth

“This is youth,” I murmur, as if words, spoken aloud, might move the scribes of the skies to write down this moment in the margins of our lives. “This is youth.” Flames flicker in eyes of deepest blue; in pools of amber something stirs; in dewdrops of olive hue something trembles—a tear threatens to fall, but no one notices. Hearts beat to rhythms of their own; laughter echoes into ink-black night. Where do those echoes go? Somewhere they must gather into records of youth, melodies of mirth that only the young can hear. A finger grazes a forearm, lingers like a yearned-for kiss, a prelude to a deeper kind of night. “Come closer, closer…” so the melody goes on, and youth evaporates into winter air as laughter turns to silent messages, a thousand words ushered in a single glance; figures slip out one by one. The room grows cold. The eyes of youth are elsewhere now; somewhere eyes aglow like shards of iridescent glass are tracing amber skin. Somewhere tears are falling; who knew obsidian eyes could spill tears of crystal blue?