Brown eyes

Your eyes were cloudy last time I looked through them. Once clear, brown tunnels through the inner workings of your mind are now shut down, closed for renovation. I'll never see that light at the end again. There is no way out. I sealed myself in tight never to breathe fresh air again.

A poet once told me he didn't want to be happy, he wanted to cradle his sadness so that he may have inspiration for new work. He said masterpieces don't come from happiness. He traded his life for poetry.
I traded you in for more words upon pages that will never express the depths of your soul the way I saw them through your glass eyes.
Art comes from pain, and I have enough to last a lifetime.