I have halted the flow of time to try and find an eraser.

I will use the eraser once I find it to rub off the features I once deemed so perfect from your shining face as you stare frozen in time like Helios or Lady Liberty or the neanderthal in the ice block at a point somewhere between fourteen and sixteen inches from the foot of our bed.

The bed is set perpendicular to a small, soft window furrowed in the eastward wall of the quaint little loft space directly above the makeshift cabin dining area that some would argue was even quainter where you and I have shared and as I recall, thoroughly enjoyed each others company, conversation, and hot beverages the most common of which being a half cocoa half coffee concoction you put together face shining like the sun one Sunday morning upon arrival home from worship.

I stop to admire you and the artistic magnificence of the face I am about to destroy. The thick snowy sunlight reflection settles upon you finely like cosmic dust or at least my own personal conception of cosmic dust. I normally avoid dust and have not experienced any from beyond the boundaries of our planet’s atmosphere that I know of due to obvious limitations. I assume any entering would thus be burned up quite quickly nonetheless I maintain that this is what it looked like.

I begin to verbally voice what I am thinking about the cosmic dust but feeling quite sheepish under the circumstances stop short of it and look toward the ground at the silence and shadows. They are not moving. I suddenly remember that I am looking for an eraser.

Once I have found an eraser and a pencil which was stowed neatly next to the eraser in a downstairs covered desk enclave I sit at the foot of the bed reasoning with myself as to the real motivation of my sudden decision to stop the flow of time and completely do away with your facial features. I could just move one or I could fill out this portion or that portion. I could turn them all at interesting and new angles or I could move them all toward one central location. I could craftily plant them in subversive and impossible cubist positions like Picasso. But I realize that perhaps I don’t have the right to decide these things after all. Who am I to judge the fate of another human being’s only true means of inward expression? Who am I?

Time starts again. You are staring like a confused animal at the pencil which has suddenly appeared in your hand. I am next to you assuming this because I cannot see. I have no eyes.