A nightly routine: we startle our souls back into ourselves. A pivot between closed doors as we drift down the hallway, every swirl a trigger in the air. To feign colliding, to reveal to each other the nostalgia we weave. Or the vertigo of catching, in lucid silence, a glimpse of our lost contours. A turn is a flash into axis, a strike to release.

We burst into dance like the slits of an eye. The void is cut, tremoring with thrill.

The doors swing open as the day shifts its flare, an etching of shadows on the run. Across the wooden tiles: the flux of time in cursive, chasing its own lustre and shade.

The emptiness has waited through the years, the seasons, the blue haze of reminiscence. It has waited for the hollowed out souls that once dwelled in this space. Gutted as a mirror, and its yearning for light.

Call us by our names. By the tints of presence coalescing in the dark. Between our sighs in magenta, the recall of an embrace crackling as embers. To the sudden glows and pangs searing our phantom flesh.

By the window sills we watch the rainstorm, our home glistening in the eye of eruption. Call us to breakage at this blind hour. Call us to our refuge, iridescent.