I’m stricken by the lights,
the forever fading your eyes have become —
this predawn is permanent
And the budding glow haunts the precipice of thought without giving anything a name.
There is no way to magnify the weakest rays.
And no escaping this horizon,
My focus insists on colours I cannot see,
searing in ultraviolets and gammas with an acutely painful penetration
My ribs and skull become lead;
A sarcophagus four metres too heavy, too deep, encloses
Where fragile fragments of you are glimpsed, and snatched,
like collecting nanometres
in electroshock therapy.
The lightning reminds me how I’d rather be scared
than remember what colour the sky used to be —
disintegration is a personal choice between
memories of you or breaking of you
and these lights could never learn to stay,
they were made to burn, then fade.