The first thing I noticed were the pupils –
round, dark, like a period at the end
of a sentence,
a black hole so powerful that everything gets sucked in, a crater on the moon
from far away.
My eyes trailed to the iris,
a deep blue like when the sky is going
to sleep,
when the ocean becomes heavy enough
to crush a soda can, a blue crayon rubbed on paper
until it breaks.
The veins branched out from the iris,
like sticks lying on a dirt path run over
by a bike, paint splatters on a clean
white canvas,
flecks of red scattered across a sea of white.
Before it broke, eyelashes blinked up and down, as gentle as a butterfly, they fluttered,
breaking the trance of an eye-to-eye
connection, hoping the image of my eyes were the same.