BREAKLIGHTS IN THE BACK OF MY MIND

The shadows lengthen and you ask me “What color is it?” “Four. Four thirty.” It is at our door breathing evenly with eyes like fire. You know I know. The sounds are loud in my ears and I huddle beneath the blanket waiting watching. “What color is it?” “Racing hearts.” Morning will not come here. The lock on our door has long ago rusted over. The glass in the window is broken shards scattered across the floor reflecting the – “What color is it?” “Inches. Feet away.” I would tell you not to go but that time is gone. Flakes of rust fall leaving new chrome. Glass fits itself into frames. All but the slim shard clutched in my hand blood running down to the floor. “What color is it?” “...”