i have blue eyes.

they're lighter closer to the pupil and the edges are darkdarkdark almost navy.  but not quite.
on sunny days there are even little gold flecks in them, like sprinkled glitter.

they're beautiful, or so i'm told.  

but not by you.

no, instead i get comments on my seventeen-year-old blue-navy-gold eyes from the pilots who come through the airport where i work.

'they really sparkle, you know?' the tell me, because they don't know that these eyes have only seen seventeen years and belong to a boy who doesn't appreciate them.

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whenever i tell you how cute you are, you shake your head sadly and tell me no, no you're not.
(and i wait for you to say i'm the cute one, but you never do.)

you used to, though.

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i miss laughing with you.

you used to think the stupid things i did like walking into walls and tripping over my own feet were the funniest things in the world.

now you just roll your eyes.

your eyes are gray and cold and almost eighteen.  and they never smile anymore.
you're so serious all the time.  you say you don't enjoy life and every time you do, i feel a piece of me break because i want you to enjoy me.  but i'm too quiet and you tell me i don't talk enough so why did i even bother calling in the first place.

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i tell you i love you.

you say it back after a sigh and a drawn out pause, like it's something you have to think about.

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i met a pilot the other day.  actually, i meet a lot of pilots.  

but this one was different.

he saw my pointe shoes in my purse and told me he dances too.  west coast swing.   he wrote his phone number on the back of a business card because i told him i wanted to learn ballroom.  he asked to have my number, too, and i gave it to him because i figured that, unlike you, he'd use it.

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he did.
five minutes after he left i got a text that said he thought my eyes were beautiful.

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you know i love to dance.
but i never went dancing with you.

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i stopped talking to that pilot after i got to know him because he spilled his life story to me and after you know that much about someone the excitement is gone.

i feel like i don't know you, so i guess that means the excitement is still there.

---

that pilot still texts me, once in the morning to wish me a good day and once at night to wish me sweet dreams.

and sometimes, during the day, my phone will beep and my heart skips a beat and my hands get sweaty-so-sweaty.
but when i open my phone and read the message, i know it can't be you.

                       has anyone ever told u that u have beautiful eyes?

my world crashes down around me, back to where it should be.

yes.  yes you did.  five minutes after you met me.

i ignore him every time.

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sometimes i wonder if you think you know me.
probably you do, but i wonder if you really  k n e w  me, the way i do, what you would think.

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i grew my hair out for you.  

it used to be shortshortshort, a half inch at most.  and i loved it, because i was different and because i couldn't hide behind it, even if i wanted to.

but you didn't like it.  you said i looked like a boy and it was hard to kiss me, even though you'd seen me naked and marveled at just how un-boyish i am.

i grew it out and told you i hated it.  you smiled with your lips and told me i am a Girl and this is how a Girl looks.

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when the stylist found me behind all that hair she looked relieved, like she thought she'd lost me.

after my bangs were gone she told me i had beautiful eyes.

i only let one of the tears slip down my cheek.  she patted my shoulder and told me not to worry, the cut was going to look fine-just-fine.

when she was done i glanced down at the pile of hair on the floor.  then i looked at the mirror, right into the blue-navy-gold eyes of the girl with half-inch-long hair.  

and i smiled.

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most nights the flight instructor sits with me while he waits for his students, eating macaroni salad and watermelon and cold barbecue chicken.  
he laughs as i muddle my way through answering aviation questions, explains how the wind effects which runway to use even though i've asked a thousand times, and offers me bites of his dinner and sips of his soda and a napkin when i dribble watermelon down my chin.

and talks to me.

and smiles at me with his eyes.

his eyes are barely twenty-one and blue, but not like mine.  they're clear-so-clear and remind me of tropical waters that i've only seen in pictures, but they must be bluer; they have to be.

i think they're gorgeous.

so i tell him