The white light is not
the golden rays
we laughed mouthfuls of,
or breathed in park grass,
or saw in the candy colored couches.
The white light has blue
around the edges.
It makes you look pale.
The tunnel of dancing dust
stretches to infinity
until it hits upon you
exploding with red and grey,
then resumes its wanderings.
Your white light fires on my iris
with teeth and blood and black.
Each exposure shortens our breath
until the threads of darkness
weave through the hollow light
and consumes us.
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