My eyes tell stories but mostly they read them.

They do not seek clues; they search for the obvious signs, for the written-all-over-the-face. My eyes read the unspoken tales written in the lines of a smile, of a pained look, of a surprised face. Hidden in the crinkles around someone else’s orbs is everything I would ever want to know. Words can be invented – they are malleable and infinite. And while looks can be misinterpreted, they can never be feigned.

That’s why eyes are my favorite books to read.