• Vol. 05
  • Chapter 08

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.

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