His eyes were beautiful.
When my mother tells me it's time I moved on from him and what he did to himself, I tell her she has no idea what he was like. She didn't even know him. I tell her about how he always listened to me cry and whine and rant, even though he was so sad, especially in the end. I tell her to leave me alone, and she says she's worried.
I tell her that she needn't be.
She doesn't believe me. She does leave, though, eventually. She locks the door behind herself and takes the key.
Well, technically I have a second key in my pocket. But it's not as if I plan on ever using it.
The minute she leaves, I curl back up into the couch and stop breathing once more. It's moments like that when I can almost feel his arms around me, holding me tight. I don't cry. I haven't cried in a very long time.
The image of his dead body, covered in slashes and maimed by his own design, prints itself against the inside my my tightly shut eyelids. I think of his eyes, empty and sad and lifeless. They are no longer so beautiful when there is no life behind them.
I had thought they were lifeless just once before he died; when he was so sad that he crawled inside of himself. But, even then, his eyes were gorgeous.
His eyes were beautiful because he was reflected inside them.
But the hollow irises inked on the inside of my eyelids are cold and glassy, no longer beautiful.
Maybe I should move on, I think after a few hours of silence in myself.
I know I will never move on, though. Not until his eyes are beautiful once more.
I want him back. I would do everything different if only it meant his eyes were looking into mine right now, happy and gorgeous.