My eyes are organic, irises made of melanin, but I heard you like blue, the color of deep water, so I take clay and glaze to make a new pair.

The process takes time. It's a trade for well-practiced hands. Porcelain rolls between my palms. I mold these new eyes to the right size, paint them. Today's shade is cobalt.

When the kiln is done, I want you to touch me, to feel my work, my craft. My other modifications are just as fragile. Body parts born from pottery. I tailor them to look like skin, but there is no elasticity. As I age, I'll switch out the decay for mineral.

There's a shelf in my bedroom closet where I keep the old parts. A finger with a callous from drawing. Cellulite thighs. There's a sign on the door which reads "private." Sometimes, I sit on the floor there, reminiscing. These body parts are soft in a way I'm not. When touching them, nerve cells work their way up the cold of me like phantoms. I can almost feel their sensations. My eyes will find their place on this shelf. At night, I will hold them, let them react to my touch, and watch as they dilate, reminding me of the first time I saw you. I'll shine a light in their lens, and still, for you, the jasper of them will stay a thin ring, but in their pupils will be only me.


.