And I watch the mountains split themselves open at dusk,
waiting for your torch to bleed through the wound.
Each night my ribs grind together,
a slow argument I never win.
The black rot drags its nails along my spine,
etching a drag path into bone,
evidence that I no longer fit beside you.
It coils around my lungs like a caged bird,
beating itself raw against the bars,
angry at the sky for still existing.
And if I am honest,
I do not want you to see what I have become.
But I still stand here, counting the dark,
needing to know you are alive somewhere beyond it.
Thus once more began the night.