The Things I Don’t Say (to the optometrist two weeks after you died)

“Do you want to see

the insides of 

your eyes?”

“Not today,

but thank you,”

I say.

“I ask because

I learned

the hard way.

People

don’t always like

to see the insides

of their eyes.”

I smile,

gesturing

I understand 

without affirming

I feel 

either way.

Once, I saw

the insides

of my eyes,

before you died.

I enjoyed it, as

I once 

enjoyed packing

rotting pockets

of flesh

with saline soaked

gauze. 

But then, you

became

the flesh, and

all patients,

they became you.

I stopped caring

to see the insides.

It began 

on the inside.

Disease no one

could see

with the naked

eye.

Show me the insides

of my eyes.

I will show you

the emptiness

of the ocean floor,

barren of life.

Show me the insides 

of my eyes. 

You cannot mistake

the loss that lingers

there in the rounded

backs between the

delicate pink veins

and soft whites. 

Show me the insides 

of my eyes,

but I forewarn you, 

I cannot promise

heartbreak 

won’t follow

when you

look away.

Through your eyes

you’ll show me 

the insides of mine.

Together,

we will see the

brokenness

of life.

So, politely,

I decline.

For us both.

Not today.

Not today, will you show me

the insides

of my eyes.