Eyes

He knows her eyes from her photographs.

He is lost in them.

In a number of the treasured images they are open and smiling. In others, they are mysterious and brooding. Sometimes they smoulder. In one or two they are soft and vulnerable. These touch him deeply.

.

He has no vocabulary to describe the colour – and besides – it is not constant. They are molasses, and coffee, and cinnamon and toasted biscuits and burnt caramel and dark, amber honey.

.

They remind him of newly born, shining chestnuts, freshly emerged from their creamy skins.

.

Her eyes make him think of gorgeous, golden, gleaming antique wood, of raw opium, and of rich, crafted, leather.

.

And of looking deep into her soul while he slowly, tenderly, expertly caresses her perfect body with long, elegant, sensitive fingers.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

.

I do not discriminate between colour of skin, of hair, or of eyes, and have no preferences. This just happens to be a tribute to brown eyes. 

.

Art by Godfrey Yarek

 

Eyes

 

He knows her eyes from her photographs.

He is lost in them.

In a number of the treasured images they are open and smiling. In others, they are mysterious and brooding. Sometimes they smoulder. In one or two they are soft and vulnerable. These touch him deeply.

.

He has no vocabulary to describe the colour – and besides – it is not constant. They are molasses, and coffee, and cinnamon and toasted biscuits and burnt caramel and dark, amber honey.

.

They remind him of newly born, shining chestnuts, freshly emerged from their creamy skins.

.

Her eyes make him think of gorgeous, golden, gleaming antique wood, of raw opium, and of rich, crafted, leather.

.

And of looking deep into her soul while he slowly, tenderly, expertly caresses her perfect body with long, elegant, sensitive fingers.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

.

I do not discriminate between colour of skin, of hair, or of eyes, and have no preferences. This just happens to be a tribute to brown eyes. It was written at the turn of the year 2013 and has been shyly and patiently waiting behind sweetly lowered lids to be posted once again this year.

 .

Art by Godfrey Yarek

 

Eyes

 

He knows her eyes from her photographs.

He is lost in them.

In a number of the treasured images they are open and smiling. In others they are mysterious and brooding. Sometimes they smoulder. In one or two they are soft and vulnerable. These touch him deeply.

.

He has no vocabulary to describe the colour – and besides – it is not constant. They are molasses, and coffee, and cinnamon and toasted biscuits and burnt caramel and dark, amber honey.

.

They remind him of newly born, shining chestnuts, freshly emerged from their creamy skins.

.

Her eyes make him think of gorgeous, golden, gleaming antique wood, of raw opium, and of rich, crafted, leather.

.

And of looking deep into her soul while he slowly, tenderly, expertly caresses her perfect body with long, elegant, sensitive fingers.

.

.

I do not discriminate between colour of skin, of hair, or of eyes, and have no preferences. This just happens to be a tribute to brown eyes. It was written at the turn of the year 2013 and has been shyly and patiently waiting behind sweetly lowered lids to be posted once again this year.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

 .

Art by Godfrey Yarek

 

Eyes

 

He knows her eyes from her photographs.

He is lost in them.

In a number of the treasured images they are open and smiling. In others they are mysterious and brooding. Sometimes they smoulder. In one or two they are soft and vulnerable. These touch him deeply.

.

He has no vocabulary to describe the colour – and besides – it is not constant. They are molasses, and coffee, and cinnamon and toasted biscuits and burnt caramel and dark, amber honey.

.

They remind him of newly born, shining chestnuts, freshly emerged from their creamy skins.

.

Her eyes make him think of gorgeous, golden, gleaming antique wood, of raw opium, and of rich, crafted, leather.

.

And of looking deep into her soul while he slowly, tenderly, expertly caresses her perfect body with long, elegant, sensitive fingers.

.

.

I do not discriminate between colour of skin, of hair, or of eyes, and have no preferences. This just happens to be a tribute to brown eyes. It was written at the turn of the year 2013 and has been shyly and patiently waiting behind sweetly lowered lids to be posted once again this year.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

 .

Art by Godfrey Yarek

 

Eyes

 

He knows her eyes from her photographs.

He is lost in them.

In a number of the treasured images they are open and smiling. In others they are mysterious and brooding. Sometimes they smoulder. In one or two they are soft and vulnerable. These touch him deeply.

.

He has no vocabulary to describe the colour – and besides – it is not constant. They are molasses, and coffee, and cinnamon and toasted biscuits and burnt caramel and dark, amber honey.

.

They remind him of newly born, shining chestnuts, freshly emerged from their creamy skins.

.

Her eyes make him think of gorgeous, golden, gleaming antique wood, of raw opium, and of rich, crafted, leather.

.

And of looking deep into her soul while he slowly, tenderly, expertly caresses her perfect body with long, elegant, sensitive fingers.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

.

I do not discriminate between colour of skin, of hair, or of eyes. This just happens to be a tribute to brown eyes. It was written at the turn of the year 2013 and has been shyly and patiently waiting behind sweetly lowered lids to be posted once again.

.

Art by Godfrey Yarek