the colour of mirrors

a room where nothing happens

what a peculiar prison,
where there's many of me
and nobody to talk to.

one standing by the window,
one watching the door,
one curled up on the floor
and sighing softly.

(there's one hanging from
the ceiling, but seeing as
she is only half there, we will
ignore her as best as possible).

the walls are somewhere
between sleepy and dead,
and i can't seem to find
my shadow. perhaps it has
collapsed in the dust,
but i don't particularly care.

i believe i mentioned a window.
the glass grows wings and
drags pretty lines across every
face, leaving blue behind them.

i do not know why we're here,
but the thin bands around our
stained, fractured wrists tell me
that we will not go for
a little while yet.

another sigh kindles and dies.

we do not make eye contact: it
is an unmentioned rule, but we
heed it all the same. we know that
if we look in another's eyes, there
will definitely be no escaping
the perpetual purple of
hollow sockets.

is it possible to see, though,
when your eyes have been dug out
with warm whispers and
glass wings?

who can say.

the curtains are drawn, and we
wait for a sun that never comes.