With the weight of the unsaid
tracing fractures of the glass
into the well of frozen ink
stepping into your obsidian
where the quiet is breathless
listening to the splinter
crossing my shadow’s path
bringing to your widow’s chest
no lantern to guide us
into the dark we know by heart
to watch over our madness
passing through our fingers
until we become a pulse
echoing in frozen ink
a rhythm of splinter.










