they can, you cannot

You’ll only ever see them in photographs. In a way, they only really exist after the fact.

Eyes. See the eyes, and a phantom sensation of long fingernails flows across the strings of your abdominal muscles. Fritzing thrum fractures next, across the ribs. Then the face. The face.

The face that regards without looking. The cold, sharp shock of recognition drilling up your spine is not what you think it is. What of the dry flavor of panic on your tongue? The screaming in your brainstem? It’s not the transparent men taking residence in your memories. That’s certain.

No worries.

Not the day-dreamy, artistic type, I hope? They like to come out and swim in distraction. It’s the worst just before sleep. Eyelids cannot hide them, the transparent men.

So I heard.

Good thing there’s no worries.

Sometimes they click.

So I hear.