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  • When you finally turn from the wall to face me, I look away. I think I am too afraid to look. I am afraid I will see your delicate, hollow sockets and your severed, sparking nerves too raw and electric to touch. I am afraid to see the places where your eyes once were — before the sorrow and the pain and the heartbreak, before we couldn’t get along, before you gouged them or I gouged them or we can remember who started the gouging, before we stopped believing we didn’t need each other to see.

    But then I look.

    I examine the brown marble of your eye, following the rings from your pupil to your retina and back again.

    And I see it there — deep in the anatomy of your eye where it seems everything is shorting and dying.

    I still see love.
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