It must be my vitreous humor, this myopia the meatus of our cave dwelling.
We rant in posterior chamber, suck carbon through filters, acquiesce to searing conjunctiva.
I worried the daydream so belligerent I breaked it.
Clenched shell to palm shards.
We sit and draw, accuse, and sometimes look one another in the eye.
Sclera in orbit.
Can't you see it.