I’m scared to open my eyes—because then I might see you. I might see your eyes, your black eyes, with pupils like pools filled with ebony. You might want me to look at your eyes, and to keep looking, fighting the urge to look away into the sky where the white sun is casting it’s shadow of light across the sky. You’ll want me to peer into those pools with an unshaken strength that I’ll be sure to find impossible when, in my peripheral vision, I catch a glance of the brilliant luminescence shining off the dark oily life on the ground. My fault.
I’m terrified to open my eyes because then I might see me, losing you. I might see what it looked like when I started answering my phone, that brightly colored text on that white screen. You’ll want me to notice the truck careening towards the driver’s side of my little car—because he’s texting his soul into that white screen too. You’ll want me to slam on the brakes or push on the gas or to invent a time machine to go back to the time before your dark oily life on the ground reflected that white hot sun and its light into my eyes and the moment came for me to look into your eyes. But I can’t.
I’m too empty to open my eyes because the white, snowy earth is blinding, and I can’t see when you’re not beside me. I might see your eyes as a vision before me—asking me why I can’t stand to look at your black coffin being lowered into the frosty earth. You’ll want me to be strong and stand up straight and move on and every other cliche in the book filled with pallid pages, but your eyes are before me always, asking and wanting. And I hear the why, why, why of the searing white hot silence screaming in my ears—haunting reverberations of the moment when your eyes closed forever. Because of me.
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