Don't Blink

What should I do with those eyes, those gypsy eyes? They murder and resurrect me, either side of a blink. I think I’m free from them, and then I see them again, even when I’m not looking I see them, there in the periphery of my silly heart. And when they see me too, in moments of unspoken, shared, blurry clarity, I’m somewhere between knowing, longing, and utterly lost when I try to fathom what they are telling me, like water drops dancing on a hot skillet, disappearing into the thick, heated air, the mist finding its way into my parched eyes.