Shaded Glasses

Opia n.

The ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable—their pupils glittering, bottomless and opaque—as if you were peering through a hole in the door of a house, able to tell that there’s someone standing there, but unable to tell if you’re looking in or looking out.

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Look at you?

No, Sir. I will not. I cannot. Not even if I gather every ounce of courage from the valiant men of the world. You’re like the sun. Bright. Hot. Blazing. Magnificent. Overwhelming. And all those glorious things that you are. I don’t know how to look at you. I’m scared to open my eyes. To turn them in your direction. To reveal the vulnerability that lies in their nakedness. I’m afraid what you might see. I’m afraid what I might see. Or not see. Of being blinded. Of being scorched by your raging passion.

I’m everything you’re not. I’m cold. I’m vulnerable. I’m broken. You will melt me. Or I will diminish you. There is no middle ground. This collision of us, it’s explosive. There can be no balance. Only chaos.

So, I will not look at you. I refuse to. Even if it means defying the very need of my soul. Even if threatens to parch my soul at its core. No. Your warmth is unbearable. Something I cannot return.

But, then there’s the need. That eternal craving. That desperate plea to fill the void.

So, here’s what I will do. I will take you part by part. Piece by piece. Ray by glorious ray. And I will savor it, know it, feel it, explore every miracle that there is to it. Slowly, cautiously, with my cold bare hands, I will make them and finally you, mine. Something familiar. Something to love. Something to give.

I will still not look. Or maybe I will. On a cold winter’s morning. When you’re as fragile as I am. When the coldness is mine, and I am yours. With another face, another façade and perhaps, some more guard, some more courage and a pair of shaded glasses.

(Credit where credit is due: Amazing, unheard word references have been taken from The Dictionary Of Obscure Sorrows, by John Koenig. If you have to waste time on the internet, waste it here.)

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