b
Literature
brown eyes are hard to romanticize. "the more i think of our childhood the more i can read in his eyes, oh god his eyes, those warm brown soothing eyes, all steady and dependable like the bark of a tree or wooden floors or that treehouse his father made for us when we were six. i think of his sister’s rooftop garden and the pretty flowers that grew all in knots and braids; roses, chrysanthemums, ivy, marigold, peonies and bluebells all spilling over and outlining the horizon standing all polychromatic against the sky- and i think that without the rich brown soil all gathered in terracotta flowerpots they wouldn’t have developed half as well, they would be haggard wi