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Eye Contact This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

The first thing I noticed were the pupils,
round, dark, like a period at the end of a sentence,
a black hole so powerful that everything gets sucked in, a crater on the moon from far away.
My eyes trailed to the iris,
a deep blue like when the sky is going to sleep,
when the ocean becomes heavy enough to crush a soda can, a blue crayon rubbed on paper
until it breaks.
The veins branched out from the iris,
like sticks lying on a dirt path ran over by a bike, paint splatters on a clean white canvas,
flecks of red scattered across a sea of white.
Before it broke, eyelashes blinked up and down, as gentle as a butterfly, they fluttered,
breaking the trance of an eye to eye connection, hoping the image of my eyes were the same.






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