I wanted to paint a picture of your eyes, see. One that captured all the deep blue and the light blue fibers of your iris. I wanted to paint your pupil huge, you know, like a quarter, or a moon, or a god-damn Buick. Swollen, like when you would whisper you loved me and I thought I could tell you weren't lying. Engorged, so large I could see myself in them and I was a different person, content with the mundane. Those pupils would swallow me, devour me whole; flesh, bones. Everything. And then you blinked.