There’s a fly that lives in the corner of my left eye.

It flutters in between my outermost lashes when I look in the bathroom mirror or I’m reading and it’s time to go to sleep.

When I first saw it I was scared because I didn’t understand and that is what we do. But we get used to anything, even if we don’t want to. We got used to missing you, and now if you died in Australia or Fiji or something we’re not sure we’d pay $2,000 dollars to see you.

When I was happier I used to see diamonds when the buildings cut the sunlight that hit the leaves hard but delicate like glass,

and the light turned the leaves into diamonds

and man, I can stare at a tree of jewels for longer than I could have ever looked at you.

Now I have this fly. It sleeps in my brain. I don’t terribly mind. I’m clinically unexcitable, the doctor said.

But you’re not here at night when the city lights surround the trees like friends, and my heart swells bigger than my head,

and everything is quiet and simple and good,

and I can breathe and live with everyone dying and dip my hands into bags of dry beans and paint my skin gold and let you go because finally everything has fled from the center and you are just a stick of bone,

pure and white and strong.

You linger in rocks and air and the pond we swim in where you grow like algae and touch our furs lightly.

Acidheads, it’s beautiful, I swear.