I wait impatiently for him to answer my plea, although I know he’s waiting for me, with his shadow-less form. He’s clearly and invisibly behind me, but I’m not ready to turn around, not ready to see him. His eyes are weather, radiating in winter dripping and panting on the cusp of budding spring. When eyes have no colour, intertwined rays of white and gray, the globes out of sight yet staring me bluntly in the face— are blinding, blank, and beautiful, for there’s beauty in the staircase, a chiselled belly connecting questions; there’s brilliance in the parlour, possessing no doors or burning glass. His fragile hands, glistening bubbles polish my skin slowly dirtying to dust. My head, a smoker inhaling self-indulgent smog has been compressed, paralyzed; summer vines interlock it, now me to him. Someday we’ll willingly have the death of our eyes, heads. Once emotional cannibalism leaves only piles of fire wood, overflowing in bones, we’ll know the nothing chanting our name is everything we’ve given up for.

A focus no longer blurred, colour no longer blind,
The bumble bees in my brain-hive have shriveled to fleas and died.

There’s beauty in the tunnel leading to an angel’s fire, there’s brilliance in the collapse through a phantom’s deafening spotlight. When senses have been taken, when it was all we ever took, his eyes still glisten, slowly transitioning tones, cheerfully and falsely, once and eternally again.