The moon was in your eyes. You rubbed your lashes with a bottle of gravity, dabbing with a cloth. Surely, all wrong with your world would change if only you divided your task into sections: Ciliary Muscle, then Aqueous Humor, then Cornea, then Lens, then Pupil, Iris, Conjuncitiva. You worked the way your Father taught you about the world; Slow, slow and deliberate.
You thought of your life before the moon in your eyes. Had the world made since even then? You remember hugging your father a few days before he was taken, how brittle and small the big frame had become. How his steps to the toilet labored. Right foot then left foot then right then left then door then five second rest. Was it this obstacle before you that made you think fondly, wishfully perhaps, to go back to your father's arms, hold him tight, knowing the Moon was up there somewhere and You down here. The world made since then. You became sure of it.
After the bottle emptied, you looked into the mirror. The moon was still there. The moon snickered at you and scratched at your pupils. You scrubbed at your eyes with a hard bristle brush. You looked into mirror. The moon had only a sliver left before fully eclipsing you now.
And like how a deer cat you raccoon kid dog runs out in front of a car and locks eyes with the light, you can't stop staring at the horror. After the initial hit, slamming the breaks, rushing from the car, hoping the worst scenario the mind has made is not true, there is part that thinks in the immediate realm of tomorrow, the: I have to get the constellations mowed, Oh and dinner 8:15pm at Saturn's Ring. Can't be late, the green tie or the red? Will Pluto be there? How big tittied and big white teeth she looked last. How had you not noticed her gaze before? You must give her your charts.
You move away from the mirror and raze the blinds; the sun had fallen between two heavy clouds and night was creeping into the sky. Me's were playing dodge the asteroid. The last sliver of day was beaming on a tree across the street. You think back to when your Father taught you to climb trees, one foot up then the next, then one foot up then the next. Break. It was comforting between the foliage. You could look across the land and breathe deeply, a sense of concord, even conquer. The light eye-locking.
You didn't have much time. Your life would change instantaneously when the Moon overtook your vision. You would be someone changed, someone unrecognizable as yourself. You would become a Me. You had to get to that tree. In a panic, you flee the bedroom, down the stairs, and out the front door. Because you run for your life. Because you run out into the middle of the street. Because you have to make it to the other side. Because here comes a car and you dart out knowing you still have a chance.
You thought of your life before the moon in your eyes. Had the world made since even then? You remember hugging your father a few days before he was taken, how brittle and small the big frame had become. How his steps to the toilet labored. Right foot then left foot then right then left then door then five second rest. Was it this obstacle before you that made you think fondly, wishfully perhaps, to go back to your father's arms, hold him tight, knowing the Moon was up there somewhere and You down here. The world made since then. You became sure of it.
After the bottle emptied, you looked into the mirror. The moon was still there. The moon snickered at you and scratched at your pupils. You scrubbed at your eyes with a hard bristle brush. You looked into mirror. The moon had only a sliver left before fully eclipsing you now.
And like how a deer cat you raccoon kid dog runs out in front of a car and locks eyes with the light, you can't stop staring at the horror. After the initial hit, slamming the breaks, rushing from the car, hoping the worst scenario the mind has made is not true, there is part that thinks in the immediate realm of tomorrow, the: I have to get the constellations mowed, Oh and dinner 8:15pm at Saturn's Ring. Can't be late, the green tie or the red? Will Pluto be there? How big tittied and big white teeth she looked last. How had you not noticed her gaze before? You must give her your charts.
You move away from the mirror and raze the blinds; the sun had fallen between two heavy clouds and night was creeping into the sky. Me's were playing dodge the asteroid. The last sliver of day was beaming on a tree across the street. You think back to when your Father taught you to climb trees, one foot up then the next, then one foot up then the next. Break. It was comforting between the foliage. You could look across the land and breathe deeply, a sense of concord, even conquer. The light eye-locking.
You didn't have much time. Your life would change instantaneously when the Moon overtook your vision. You would be someone changed, someone unrecognizable as yourself. You would become a Me. You had to get to that tree. In a panic, you flee the bedroom, down the stairs, and out the front door. Because you run for your life. Because you run out into the middle of the street. Because you have to make it to the other side. Because here comes a car and you dart out knowing you still have a chance.
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