I bet that you would die before running a finger along those circles under your eyes, before admitting to being run-down and tired and maybe a little bit weathered. No one wants to hear about that time that you made the winning touchdown or saved a baby in a burning building, and those stories linger brownish gray under the curve of each of your lower eyelids, waiting.
But I see them there and know just what they are, and if I cared just a tiny bit more I would slice open those pouches and set those stories free, squeezing that space below your eyes like an orange and collecting all of your words in a pile like sticks destined for a fire.
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