Our eyes don’t change.
Our eyes are the same when we die.
Each hour shaves a bit off your sternum,
trying to bare your heart.
For years I tried to peel off my name,
but there was always another one underneath.
They bounce down the lane like old leaves,
fragile and finely curled.
You have not imagined, yet,
a world in which someone loves you.
Pretend you’ve had more sleep
than you have. Someday your body may believe you.