The shadows lengthen
and you ask me
“What color is it?”

“Four. Four thirty.”

It is at our door
breathing evenly
with eyes like fire.

You know
I know.

The sounds are loud in my ears
and I huddle beneath the blanket
waiting
watching.

“What color is it?”

“Racing hearts.”

Morning will not come here.
The lock on our door
has long ago rusted over.

The glass in the window is broken
shards scattered across the floor
reflecting the –

“What color is it?”

“Inches. Feet away.”

I would tell you not to go
but that time is gone.

Flakes of rust fall
leaving new chrome.
Glass fits itself
into frames.

All but the slim shard
clutched in my hand
blood running down
to the floor.

“What color is it?”

“...”