What does a blind person see when an image is described to them?
When did we stop truly observing with our eyes and start merely labelling what we see, without really looking?

Could it be that we are the ones who are blind—unable to see the colours of a word?
What is the texture of an emotion?
What does imagination taste like?

We feed our bodies, yet at times leave our minds starving.
We chase desire, and forget passion.

When I look at you, I don’t see just a face—
not the way others might.
When I look at you, the sweet melody of hope makes sense within me.
The river that once carried tears now flows with life, simply by being near you.

When I look at you, I don’t see a face.
I see the reason why painters pour their souls into pigments,
Letting colours become secondary
When they make love with their brushes.
They animate the inanimate.
They give life to death.

What colour are your eyes?
To me, they are the colour of joy—
The same shade the sunrise carries gently into the day.

Your lips scream war.
Your voice whispers peace.
And in your words lives the elegance of a calla lily,
alongside that warm and welcoming love
offered by your sweetness and your touch.

And even so, with all that I see in you,
I feel blind—
blind, because my eyes can’t do justice
to the beauty of your being.