My Eyes

I hear:

Lapping waves.


I smell:

Wood and skin, warmed by the sun.

I taste:

The coffee she drank before she kissed me.

I feel:

Rough wood.

The breeze cooling my bare toes.

I see:


I imagine:

Her face. It’s never the same. Today, I want to brush my fingertips over freckles she may or may not have.

‘It’s beginning. Can you feel it?’

‘Don’t look at the sun.’

‘I know,’ she says. ‘It’s okay. I got those eclipse glasses.’

I see what she sees. I lost my sight in 99, I don’t want her to lose hers.

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