that people listen to and touch with their hands,
as if the eerie silence is tangible.
The sun sets; the crimson of my veins grace the sky,
the violet flowers bloom as the sapphire recedes,
and the darkness slowly descends.
My shadow comes out,
following me, listening to my every word,
as I stare at this nameless outline of me.
In the morning, the sun rises,
I speak words that I write,
that people listen to and touch with their hands,
but my words can't help me see ...
my shadow.
