I must find a new way to say what some already know too well: I left one of my eyeballs behind, someplace else. Well, actually, it left me. It had to stay, and I understood perfectly. We parted amicably - although my other eyeball stayed silent, as did the rest of my organs, who pitied their colleague for going AWOL. They were certain it had chosen certain doom. Now my eyeball - my ex-eyeball, sorry - though disconnected, sends me sporadic phantom flashes. It's a kind eyeball, sending these dispatches, now and then. It's - 

rolling down the grimy sidewalk, underneath shuffling feet and pulled-behind grocery trolleys. 

Eyeball gathers dust as it bumps over the gravel walk in El Parque de San Isidro. 

Petals dropped by blossoming almendras plaster Eyeball in pink. Eyeball revels in the blush. Eyeball could pop in pleasure.

On to the cemetery - Eyeball bounces up against white stone - bleak and blinding, cringes away from the chalky texture - so Eyeball rolls over, towards the sky hazy blue, framed by shaggy fir trees that stretch towards the clouds.

Eyeball continues, on down, on down the hill, towards the center. the city. a silver/orange wrapper sticks to Eyeball like wet paper to a shoe and instantly binds, looping with Eyeball, and together they tumble down, down, down -

I am disoriented. I shake my head, and the transmission is lost. Where are you now, Eyeball? Did you wander into a kebab shop, and ask, with your odd, blinking communication, to be nestled in among the falafel, on a bed of lettuce, blanketed in silky white sauce? Will you wake covered in fried crumbs?

My sight is perfectly adequate. When I bump into things or trip, it is because I am distracted by Eyeball's transmissions, which come without warning or pattern. Sometimes I try – by squeezing shut my remaining, loyal eye, and thinking very hard, and picturing the places I can remember – I try to make requests of Eyeball. Please, Eyeyball - show me Carabanchel. Go into a cafetería. I know you cannot hear the steamed milk scream when it shoots from the espresso maker - but I think, if I can see it, if you show me, I will remember... 

I know it is a long way to go, without legs, but can you go to El Prado in the morning? When there is still stray coolness in the shade? And find the man who plays guitar? He will be near where they sell paintings to tourists, paintings of women in red-and-black spotted dresses ... 

I know you cannot hear the guitarist. But maybe - maybe, if you show me his fingers, and we watch closely, we can imagine the sounds birthed by deft hands. 

Eyeball, I know you are tired. I hope you stay hydrated somehow, without a body to sustain you. I know you are tired, but will you take the metro for me? 

Be careful on the escalator - don't get stomped on by a teenager's clunky sneaker, or stabbed onto a stiletto like an olive, or worst of all slurped up by the disappearing steps of the conveyor. 

Eyeball, go down into the metro - you won't need a card, just slide under the gate, and if someone gives you a funny look, ask them just where they think you're supposed to tuck a wallet. 

Take the metro back to our old street, back to Vía Carpetana, dear Eyeball. And when you emerge into the outside air, after you blink and recover your vision in the brilliant day - Eyeball, show me. Show me how people great each other. Show me how they say goodbye.