Writers Jam

you have pre-war eyes not the kind that have seen blood, but the kind that have seen the sky hold its breath. your eyes are not ruins - they are the silence before sirens, the tremble of birds lifting all at once from electric wires. there is a history in them that has not yet happened, a prophecy folded like a letter never opened. when you look at me it feels like standing in a field where the wind has stopped moving because something is coming. your gaze carries unfinished goodbyes, unsent apologies, love letters that were never brave enough to exist. pre-war eyes - soft as untouched cities, fragile as windows that still believe in mornings. i wonder who taught them to wait like that, to hold both tenderness and warning in the same fragile blue. they look at the world as if memorizing it the way sunlight falls on skin, the way laughter sounds before it breaks, the way hands fit together before they learn how to let go and sometimes when you blink, i swear i can hear the distant thunder of almost. almost loss. almost fire. almost love. but for now, your eyes are still a country untouched, a sky before the first crack of light and i am terrified of being the war that changes them.