There is a circle about the iris of your eyes, a dark soot-grey thing that holds all of you within it. If I were to pluck it out, that thin, grey line, it would unleash all of you unto me. I let it stay. I let it bind you, and your secrets remain unfleshed within the pools of your eyes.

The feathered plume of each brow breaks forth into thin arches. Flecks of India ink dot your skin. You are tired but compelled to watch me. You stand, not on the cusp of speaking, but waiting, listening, holding my hands.

You understand me. You comprehend this. If all the world will forget you, you know that I am not among them. I do not want this. I begin to erase every trace of your existence, and your hands squeeze mine tight. You close your eyes in acceptance. I stare at your after image and realize your eyes were never open at all.

I wipe the sweat from my hands. I close my eyes in turn. My hands bunch into fists. Thin grey circles dot the backs of my eyelids. I open my eyes and begin to work again.