by Isabella Houle '19
I know I’m not visible to you and you’re
just a luminescent dot to me, a
speck of lint on the blanket, dark as a
black hole that I spread
on the ground.
I know I’m not visible to you, but your
brilliance is tattooed to my
eyes, all of your
eccentric shape, the crossed
lines making a pentagonal silhouette.
I know I’m not visible to you,
so it’s understandable you might be
hesitant to listen to me.
I’m just a solitary pair of eyes among
many, unimportant as a fleck-like
star in the Milky Way.
But maybe I could be visible to you,
brilliant and observable like you,
like a pair of blue eyes in
myriads of hazel ones; my
dull browns are always overlooked.
I think I’m not visible to you,
though maybe I could be, I
could shine as powerful as the sun,
brilliant like the streak left
behind by a shooting star.
Am I visible to you?