Habitual Fact

Raised head to stare at the sun
with closed eyes, the sky falls
in pockets of green glass.
We would not linger fixed
for so long. We would not
open our mouths to singe
our throats into submission.
I sat on the doorstep
for an hour, filling my jeans
with crushed yellow leaves.
I waited for you in the dawn,
filled up limb by limb
with stagnant blood. Fill
me up with sunlight and I would
see red for all of color, laid sliver
and cell on top of my veins.
I would sit until, god,
until we both stopped caring
for the individual geometries
of our eyelids. Blink
and be done with it.
Done with the waking hour.
You were done with color
seeping into the darkness without
your hands pushing it all in.
Palms against your eyes to push
the optic nerve to breaking
a little bit between us.
Zero, one, two, three, four.
We can't stand up so fast.