Brown Eyes

Brown eyes.

I know when they’re trying to lie.

I know when they’re hiding grief.

I know when they’re holding laughter
hostage behind a straight face.

Brown eyes are truthful in that sense.

Not because they reveal everything,
but because they darken with sorrow
and soften with love.

They hold storms differently.

The world writes poems
about those ocean blue eyes, builds constellations

and compares hazel eyes
to sunlight through trees.

Yet somehow, brown eyes
remain overlooked,
as though the color of earth
was ever ordinary.

As though rich soil
is not where everything begins.

Maybe I love brown eyes
because they have always looked familiar.

I see my mother’s eyes.

My father’s too.

My grandparents.

Generations of people
looking back at me
through different faces.

The same color
carried across time.

The same softness. The same flame. The same silent understanding.

When I look into brown eyes,
I do not just see a person.

I see history.

I see home.

I see pieces of the people
who loved me
long before I knew
how to love myself.

Brown eyes have always been
my favorite window to peer into.

Because sometimes
when I look closely enough,

they look back
like family.