A HUNDRED SILHOUETTE HOURS

Backlit, shoulder
struck bright;

a shadow
a mark of you.

I am unslept
and hollowed.

Brilliant
catastrophes flower,

ambition breaks
into red blossom.

Dreamless, the body
is its own

grave telling.
Never hurry,

my otherwise,
my next.

Cut away
all but the interior.

Blinding,
this recognition:

you here
in this seam of dark.

This is my
misplaced will,

my hazy plan:
I’ll watch as you

become the history
of a hundred

silhouette hours,
the surface

of every
blistering thing.