sometimes to feel the morning even here

I make my body into a flint, so that the night can't get in, and strike every heartbeat of the hall as i find my way down. the scratches are familiar, and comfortable, and I hope they are enough. and I am always turning back, finding it could be a new season, finding you made of puddles, and mop-hair, and corners of pages tugged, finding you crumpled and real and softly still, catching on the wall.