Eyes that Speak

It was less about the words.
Less about the way your voice
was gritty and earthy
like the remains of a grave
discarded.
It really wasn’t about what you said.
Not about the hiss
and the way the syllables cut
as you spat them out;
a bitter taste stinging your tongue.
No,
it was the look.
The lack of
acknowledgment
like you’d rather me not there.
A stain to be scrubbed
a fly to be swatted
a nuisance to be dashed.
It was your stare
at other than me;
the eye rolling at my shadow
on the periphery.
And that’s where I’ll be.
Until you want me again
look at me with eyes that shine
tell me without speaking
that I’m wanted and needed
and not just a filler
of a vacant space.

© LaYinka Sanni, December 2014.

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