Contact

I have my contacts in. My glasses, they fog, when it's crowded, when it's warm. A face goes up close to mine and they get smudged. They fall down my nose. They're cumbersome. I'm not sure when to take them off, and then I can't see you.

Each eye itches. Each eye stings both with air and the lack thereof. There is a layer between the contact and me. There is always a layer.

I wear these so there is no fog, so there are fewer steps. So I can always be sure to see you. Even with the lights off. I wear these so my finger isn't always pushing the glasses up my oily bridge. They sit crooked, I can feel them sitting crooked. No one's ears are perfect, certainly not mine. So I take them off and I wear these because I think I know what's going to happen.

But it doesn't. You go to where the host stays, I go to where the guests go. I'm alone where the guests go. One leg out of the blanket looking at the moon, the moon which I never see. And now I see it all too well.