Her windows are beautiful

I have this paintbrush sitting in a box in my attic.
It's stained with tears, and blood,
and dipped in a coat of wood finish
and kissed with a dark shade of love.
All the bristles are falling out and it's dull from all the oils on my hands.
I've used it to paint her face,
and his face,
and her face again,
and their faces together,

but I can't seem to get their eyes right.

They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul,
but I'd never be able to do either one justice.

I've fallen in love with eyes,
I've fallen in love with souls,

and I've fallen in love with open windows.