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Her eyes are green

Artwork by Jenna Tse, staff artist

By Jisu Yee

I’d spent about two months trying to determine their true color. I thought they were darker hazel, on a cool autumn day when her irises seemed to blend in with the warm colors of red and brown.

Then blue, when she laughed. When I looked at her baby pictures, months later, I saw those little sapphires mixed in with gray.

I once observed her side profile as she talked. Musty sunbeams shone through the windows and lit her eyes up like stained glass. Her eyes are green, her eyes are green.

When we sat on the grass, our skin and clothes slightly dewy from a drizzle, I lent her my puffy jacket, thankful that we were about the same height. She was still cold. I let her rest her head on my shoulder, and wrapped my arm around her. I looked down as she let out a soft sigh and gently leaned in closer to me.

I distantly remember her saying that she has a form of heterochromia. Her eyes are green, her eyes are green.


Contributor's Note: Jisu Yee is a young writer from New York City. She often writes poems that are musings about herself and the world, but enjoys making up stories of her own. It's up to you to decide which is which.

The Incandescent Studio Blog Series

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