how does the sun burn in a vacuum?

as the light grows warmer,

my heart reignites.

the dollhouse jitters,

disrupting the static of my space.

young fingers press rosebuds into my skin,

& light fills my house with life.

time healed the wounds of the night

the nights i spent picking my skin,

letting my blood flow under the faucet,

the kitchen light watching,

silent,

as it pirouetted in a beautiful set.

i sat where you left me.

a paperweight in your room,

a glass bird on the windowsill,

an old star,

burning itself out,

while you traced new constellations.

and still, i stayed

a book you would not finish,

a song caught in the static,

the afterimage of something bright

that never quite fades.

the sun grows warmer.

the light returns.

why then, does its coming

send shivers down my spine?

why does it whisper a fear

so familiar, so known?

will the night knock again?

will it creep in as i shower,

peek from behind the window,

curl beneath the curtain folds?

the lights blind me

incandescent,

golden,

bright

bending, shaping, reaching, forming

two hands that cup my face,

a shoulder carved for the slight of my head,

two eyes that see me dream.

but when the light is done playing,

when it’s had its fill,

will it go back to its world?