Distillations of infinity.
Look into her eyes and discover the granularity of the pupil.
Count the number of memories that come up.
Count your loved ones on your fingertips.
Do you need one hand or two?
The question you need to ask yourself is:
Who isn’t there?

Vintage sunsets bloom behind your eyes
And you just want to rip them out, but your eyes
Crumble like oak leaves in the fall every time you
Reach into your sockets with your clawed hands.
You realize you’re dreaming when you try to scream
And nothing comes out.

One day they’ll discover there are layers to gravity
Like there are layers to time, like there are layers to memories,
Like there are layers to the way her eyes rip apart the four dimensions and you’re left naked at the zenith of nothingness when she asks you for the truth.

You’re sliced and diced into infinite infinitesimal pieces and
Your only options are to float out into space in every direction
Or to reconstitute yourself using only her eyes
But her eyes are screaming and your pieces are shaking like
Oak leaves in the fall.

You realize you’re not dreaming when you try to talk
And nothing comes out.
Did you count your memories?
Did you count your loved ones?
Look at your pieces reflected in her eyes,
Becoming countable until you’re whole again.
Tell me, who wasn’t there?