The light spilling over the window sill reminds me to turn over before I see it pool in the sheets where emptiness lies. Each morning I am beside myself. Shadows are newly poured, around my face and body filling all crevices and hardening to crust.
Afternoons only defer nightfall.
Movements are matchsticks, snapping with flintless tinderness until I splinter. And from these pieces grow thornflowers for a desert.