I am worried about her and her eyes. She's stopped telling me things
and now all I see are the pictures she sends. In some they are as big
as moons, the black middles gaping; in others, they're surrounded by a
band of fat, wet red. They dominate her face.
She said they were swelling. How she had to push them back in so she
could blink. I tell her to go to the doctor but she says she's too
busy. I yell, BUT THEY'RE YOUR EYES! Eyes trails off long and so
important and I realize it is the first time I have ever screamed the
word. How I never want to scream it again. She won't listen to me,
says it's fine.
In my dreams, her eyes glitter and pop. In my dreams, I try to scoop
the thick liquid back into her sockets but she turns away. I wake up
sweaty, working my hands, waking no one.
It goes this way for a while until it doesn't, until it's dreams come true.
I take frames from walls; clutch them in my hands when she stops by.
I look back and forth back and forth back and forth. She never knows
I am holding them. We don't talk about it anymore, how they were her
father's, how now they are gone for good. I yearn for lost things.
She stays still in her dark.