Fuzzy

I looked at her but there was something unclear.
She seemed blurry, even when I wiped the fingerprints from my glasses.
We had always just been so fuzzy.
It's like the picture we were drawing together curled at the edges.
And our lines never seemed to line up properly.
My left hand dragged across the paper and smeared each line she drew.
Once my hand finally settled and I began to draw,
she would unconsciously swat at it to change it's direction.
Without even knowing it though, we drew in opposite directions,
always promising to meet up somewhere down the line.
We're liars now. She lied to me. I lied to her.
We lied to maintain pace.
Next time I see her my eyes will try to adjust.
My pupils will expand grasping violently at the light she gives off.
Inside the nerves will sting the back of my eyelids.
But my eyelashes will become dislodged and float delicately into my line of view.
They know better. It's a defense mechanism.
A different type of discomfort to take my mind off the pain receptors that lead directly toward my chest.