The average person blinks an average of five years of their life away. If a blink lasts 0.3 to 0.4 seconds and we blink an average of five times a minute, eighteen hours a day,
thats half an hour a day.
0.3 seconds is a long time. I didn’t meet you because in the fleeting three tenths of a second, maybe four tenths, I was supposed to see you. But my eyes fluttered shut like the mouth of a Venus flytrap.
And now I don’t have a friend where you were supposed to be, and I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know if your hair is melted gold or liquid obsidian, and I won’t know even if I ever see you again, because I blew it and
we blew it.
I don’t know what our friendship would be. I don’t know that you were supposed to be the one that came with me to get my cartilage piercing. You were supposed to give me silver leaf bubble gum when I had gravel dust in my cut, but when I said something hysterical in class and no one laughed but you smiled and I was supposed to see that smile? I blinked.
And you don’t know who I am even if you do because I’m not your best friend because we blew it by blinking. Or I did? Or we both did? But I’m not supposed to feel bad because I don’t know which person in the classroom you were, or I don’t know where you were in the crowd at my favorite concert, because I blinked when my eyes were scanning your face.
0.3 seconds (or 0.4), that’s fast, but when I was supposed to see you and swallow your persona and feel your shared love for alabaster cloud shoes, there was darkness, slimeing milliseconds like a salt covered slug creeping across a slate slab.
But I guess I have to surrender to blinking.
I have to surrender. Surrender my feet to frostbite like an island surrenders to isolation.
Like moons that live in darkness but reflect the brightest stars they see.
Surrender my carbon dioxide eyelids to oxygen like octopuses surrender ink.
Like flyaway hangnails.
Like wisps of smoke in indigo skies.