Light chased and you carried its weight.
When we spoke, you saw, illuminated our words.
Can’t photograph breaths but what’s breathing,
used to speaking to ghosts, rarely seeing ourselves
lucky with eyes but few measure colors between black and white.

How we’re attuned to shadows isn’t as beautiful as how
we’re exposed in light that speaks for our story.

We see you in dark rooms, measuring
what we see, as we are, how we are.

Vision is but eyes aren’t perpetual so hold to this—
as you saw us
as we hope we sound—profound, ignited bends in shades.

Permanent swirls in static.