Your irises always sing an aqua harmony,
but I cannot make out their shades, when you
sit me down to hear your tale.

If the tension in the air is any clue, there must be fear dancing
in the wrinkles around your eyes,
but I am trying to count colors. I focus to discern.

You murmur that you’re happy, glancing down and to the right.
Your pupils look like little fish.
I hope I look like an angel.

“They always say these conversations are hard, but-“

I trust you’ll say “better”, 
but you say, “They’re much worse in reality,”

which is when I realize 
your hope had been that I would feel 
happy. I wish I loved

like an angel. You wish you
didn’t feel like a devil. I wonder what god
has the image I reflect.