Because what I see isn't the brown in your eyes,
the brown that carries the depth of turning grass to concrete.
the brown that has seen too much
but knows too little.
What I see isn't how your irises shine in the sunlight,
it isn't your soul.
Because the windows are shut;
and I see the cold hard reflection that is me.
Do the eyes we share engrave our fates into our blood?
Because I fear I have lost my soul. 

Because what I fear isn't the inability to give,
but the awareness that maybe giving isn't enough anymore.
As if being tied with ribbon,
and wrapped with pretty paper
would conceal the roughness of the bricks.
The heavy "presents" that you lay on top of each other for me,
until I couldn't see your hands,
and so I couldn't give you anything back.
Are your hands rough from the scratches attained
from wrapping the bricks?
I can't see the sunlight that shines,
and I've outgrown my clothes.
But please don't tear this down.
Because I fear it would be winter,
and I would be cold.