My eyes are sights, telescopic and heat-sensitive. I cannot blink or look away, I cannot tear up to get the grit out. My hard drive is spacious, my shutter-speed quick. I cannot un-see what I see, and I see you. I see the live feed of you bleeding into the sand. It makes clumps. Your clawing fingers leave four smooth trails, 18 centimeters long, there, there, and there.
I see you, in a snapshot, smiling wide with the whites of your eyes and the whites of your teeth. You are touching my chest, for as long as this picture is displayed you are touching my chest, much like I saw you touch his chest. You laughed and pushed him gently away.
I do not move when you push me. I weigh almost 500 pounds. My bones are reinforced polymers. My guts are seething, wheezing heat sinks. My chest is a noisy drum. My lungs are coiled ammo belts, and I only know how to exhale.
I see you in a freeze frame, your mouth dark and tall, your teeth hidden, your eyes wet, your face bloody. I scroll back and make you happy again.