The eyes won't be anything but impassive. Behind the tall treetops, a moon like a Cheshire cat smile wanes, surrounded by steam-like fog.
Communication. It takes place only that way.
Eyes open, eyes close, her eyes beam behind the glass and his eyes, shrouded in a projected shadow, look impassive at her.
Through eyes closed eyes open look and see nothing but a strain in the Milkyway of freckles on her cheeks.
They touch. They kiss.
But it's their eyes, not their lips, the ones that are speaking.
On the spur of the moment.