Vampire eyes, she said.
This photograph of you has no pupils, and mine are dilated from sleep. Your friend took it over breakfast, across our sandy blanket, a Polaroid, a gag gift she’d brought in a beach bag, in the back of the van. She looked at the photograph and laughed at your distortion. I have the only copy.
Give it here, Amy, you said, extending a hand for the photograph. Your voice had an edge to it, and a familiarity, a gentle reprimand. Gentle, because of her, but also because of me, because I was excitable, and fragile, and what I knew about the world was all contained in the edges of that print, the way your hand could brush hers and mine, and I was not sure of the difference, if there was a difference, if even you knew.
In the dream I had, I still have, even though you and she and I are gone from that beach, I run alongside the windbreak of eucalyptus, and I find you at the end, in a swirl of dust, and I grab your hand before falling off the border of this vision. We leap into the dark. I am rigid. My fists flex inside the brace of my thumb.
See here, watch, I will wake us up from memory, from paper, trace an outline of brown around our orbit, adjust the aperture. I will change these boundaries, draw a thousand new lines. My hands will bloom an iris out of you yet.

Elisabeth Hamilton’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Cincinnati Review, Colorado Review, Five Chapters, Juked, Necessary Fiction, and [PANK]. She received her MFA from Warren Wilson College. She lives and teaches in New York City.