"They speak to me." The opening line only makes sense because of the title above it. "Eyes" supplies the noun, and the poem begins with a pronoun that leans back on its own heading, as if the speaker were confiding something. From there, typical abigail builds a small argument about communication. Real speaking, the poem insists, "is not just words from your lips" but "reading your mind and your heart." The boldest claim comes quickly: "Your eyes can beat all words."
The poem then pushes the idea into grander territory. Eyes "can replace all stars," and stars and words "would beg for their glory back." It is a generous piece of exaggeration, with the night sky and language itself personified as rivals who have been outdone. But the next move is surprisingly practical: "you can't just give them your eyes. / You need your eyes to see." The cosmic comparison is brought down to earth by plain logic, which gives the poem a slightly playful, thinking-aloud quality. The following line, "To see, just how beautiful your eyes are," adds a small paradox, since we can't normally see our own eyes. The poem seems to imagine the beloved's beauty being seen through the speaker's gaze, and that leads into the next image: "me glaring into them, trying to find their deepest journeys." "Glaring" is a curious word choice. It usually suggests hostility, but here it seems to mean an intensity of looking that is almost too much, an effort that borders on strain.
The real turn comes when the speaker's confidence runs out. Four lines in a row begin "My eyes can't see": the pain, the love, the journey, and finally "anything." The repetition has the feel of a list of losses, and each item is more general than the last, until the speaker is left with nothing at all. The reason arrives in a deflating phrase: "Because we don't meet eye to eye." Normally this idiom means two people disagree. Here it is made almost literal, so that disagreement and physical distance blur into one. The poem doesn't say why the two people don't meet, and judging by the text, we are left to imagine whether it is shyness, separation, or something unspoken between them.
What keeps the poem from ending in defeat is its final adjustment. If sight fails, "My hearing will grow stronger," and the speaker will "listen to all your eyes can say." This brings us back to the first line, where the eyes were already speaking, so the poem closes in a loop. The senses are mixed deliberately: the speaker wants to hear eyes, and the last line asks to "feel the feeling of looking into your eyes." That repeated "feel" is clumsy in a way that suits the emotion, a speaker reaching past neat phrasing toward something sensory and immediate.
Formally, the poem is free verse with no end rhyme and no steady metre. Its rhythm is that of speech. Some lines run long and breathless, like "Stars and words would beg for their glory back, but you can't just give them your eyes," while others are blunt and short: "They speak to me." "My eyes can't see anything." The short lines land like pauses, and the contrast gives the poem its emotional pacing. The word "eyes" appears a dozen times in the body of the poem, enough to become a kind of drumbeat that keeps the reader's attention fixed where the speaker's is. (The stray "&" at the end of the penultimate line looks like a typing slip rather than a deliberate choice.)
The poem is significant because of an irony it never quite points out. It argues that eyes are better than words, yet it must use words to say so, and its most moving moment is the admission that the speaker cannot read those eyes at all. Longing here grows out of an absence, the eye contact that hasn't happened. By turning to hearing when sight fails, the poem suggests that wanting to understand another person can reshape how we pay attention to them. For a reader, that is a useful thing to notice: the poem's most familiar idea, that eyes are the windows to the soul, is only the starting point, and the poem becomes interesting when it asks what happens when the window is closed.