The coronas of light outside my window
are growing dimmer by the minute, each day
waking to a little less illumination
and a few more furtive prayers. At first
it was barely noticeable, a few
longer shadows in unpainted crevasses
throughout the contours of my face,
and then suddenly, after a disposable dream
about running through beaches
half-naked at dawn, I awake to find
I can barely identify my hands, lying
stock-still on the blank canvas sheets. It's like
when you asked me for a quick
kiss, and at first I thought it would lead
nowhere, the light from our pupils
barely enough to light the way to our spines. Then,
before I knew it, sucking
blood from my vessels, thoughts
from my neurons, breaths
from straight out of the back
of my slicing throat. I was meant
to trade darkness for touches, echoes
for lullabies, exchanges of fluid
to light up our bloodstreams. I've lit up
bodies for less, of course: a few
spare coins, an extra vial
to store my sweat drops. At night,
when the light is about to dim,
I need to feel like the only one
who can reflect moonlight
without creating any puddles on the floor,
too far out of reach to ever be fully cleaned.
No comments:
Post a Comment