I’ve started to fabricate you here almost too clearly.

Imaginary friend then?

I focus down to the color of your eyes - not brown; sepia, umber, mahogany, agony. The way your crooked smile pulls up to the right, your left, less than an inch, one centimeter exactly. How you sit with your legs outstretched, hands back, holding you up. Your sleeves are folded up to your elbows and the top two buttons are undone, exposing small specks of fawn hair. There’s slight bags under your eyes, ashen granite, and an eyelash you notice me staring at and wipe away.

"Make a wish," I comment. Your grin widens, exposing blanch, almost straight teeth. Running a strong, swift hand through your cardinal hair, you clear your throat.

"I wish I were actually here."

The color of your eyes change - woe, wan, terra-cotta bronze.

"I wish you were actually here."