I drape myself in premonitions,
jagged tapestries of iron rain,
because your shadow arrives
like a cathedral swallowing its bells.
Your voice;
a labyrinth of mirrors splitting into dust.
I hurl obsidian birds into the corridors
so their wings detonate before yours can.
Every gesture is a secret machinery:
hands like veils of phosphorus,
eyes like rivers burning backwards,
lips unfolding into a hive of knives.
I salt the silence before it speaks,
plant glass orchards in the marrow of your breath.
Better your lungs bloom with shrapnel
than my ribs dissolve in your gravity.
And so,
when the night fractures into apertures of fire,
let the conflagration choose you,
let the ashes sculpt your name,
before you can dream of sculpting mine.
