How I do express this feeling in my body? This absence in my chest cavity? The uneasiness of being apart from you is exhausting. Every minute without you makes me tired and restless. My limbs move through dead space. There is no comfort to be found in anything. I have melancholy coursing through my veins. It's running through my system, affecting everything. I've taken at least a hundred photos of myself trying to capture its effects on the human body. I wonder if I look as bad as I feel. I say yes. My one eye is fixed open in a state of shock.
Oh, my eyes.
They've cried a lifetime it seems. I was told once that I had a problem with these eyes of mine. It was by an instructor. He said I had dead eyes. I remember thinking, "Oh, great. Dead eyes. Me." I must have told you about this when I was in school, as it was back then when it happened. I'm sure we talked about it then. (How do you tell me you remember? Knock three times, have the wind say something, it's moving so fast it's already whistling, do something, anything, please?) Well, this comment affected me back then. I wrote in my class notes about it. I remember working on brighter eyes. Then I forgot about it. We worked. We discovered together. I forgot many things. Learned many new things. I was too happy to worry about my eyes, and in fact my eyes were quite fine. No one made a complaint against them, that's for damn sure.Now, it's all about my eyes. It's been all about my eyes for six months. Six months. Six god-awful months. "What's wrong with your left eye? Hey, your right eye looks swollen. You should get that checked out. Maybe you should get a second opinion. I know the doctor said crying everyday for a hundred days straight would probably make your eyes act funny, but who knows maybe it's a tumor. You know, because you might have a tumor now too, or something."
My left eye is bigger than my right. It sort of bulges out more, producing this fixed eye. I think it's still in shock, or at least that's what it looks like to me. It bothers me. It doesn't physically bother me. I don't feel a tumor the size of grapefruit resting upon my optic nerve. What bothers me is the extra attention it attracts. It reminds me everyday how much your death has affected me. My face looks weird. Off balance. Crooked. I take turns covering each side, and looking in a mirror. First the left, then the right. I feel like a comic book villain. The lady with the two faces. "There go my looks," I here my inner hag tell me. "You took the best of me," another voice says. "You died in vain, " a third. "Why did you leave me?", a forth. "I'm sorry. Come back. I miss you," fifth, sixth, seventh.
Oh, my eyes.
They've cried a lifetime it seems. I was told once that I had a problem with these eyes of mine. It was by an instructor. He said I had dead eyes. I remember thinking, "Oh, great. Dead eyes. Me." I must have told you about this when I was in school, as it was back then when it happened. I'm sure we talked about it then. (How do you tell me you remember? Knock three times, have the wind say something, it's moving so fast it's already whistling, do something, anything, please?) Well, this comment affected me back then. I wrote in my class notes about it. I remember working on brighter eyes. Then I forgot about it. We worked. We discovered together. I forgot many things. Learned many new things. I was too happy to worry about my eyes, and in fact my eyes were quite fine. No one made a complaint against them, that's for damn sure.Now, it's all about my eyes. It's been all about my eyes for six months. Six months. Six god-awful months. "What's wrong with your left eye? Hey, your right eye looks swollen. You should get that checked out. Maybe you should get a second opinion. I know the doctor said crying everyday for a hundred days straight would probably make your eyes act funny, but who knows maybe it's a tumor. You know, because you might have a tumor now too, or something."
My left eye is bigger than my right. It sort of bulges out more, producing this fixed eye. I think it's still in shock, or at least that's what it looks like to me. It bothers me. It doesn't physically bother me. I don't feel a tumor the size of grapefruit resting upon my optic nerve. What bothers me is the extra attention it attracts. It reminds me everyday how much your death has affected me. My face looks weird. Off balance. Crooked. I take turns covering each side, and looking in a mirror. First the left, then the right. I feel like a comic book villain. The lady with the two faces. "There go my looks," I here my inner hag tell me. "You took the best of me," another voice says. "You died in vain, " a third. "Why did you leave me?", a forth. "I'm sorry. Come back. I miss you," fifth, sixth, seventh.
