- Vol. 05
- Chapter 08
Image by Sharon McCutcheon
As Himself
Under blank clocks, his skin was my skin. He never talked. Blood dripped from his tongue; discarded gossip.
Afterwards, music played; we sang each chorus, hungover songbirds at dawn.
In a silent film, by an actor’s name it read, ‘Himself’. There was no character.
For as himself, he shone; he was gold, always.
In a silent film, by an actor’s name, one day soon, I will find him.