Not Wearing Glasses

I walk through thin veils of colored light and carefully tread upon gleaming shards of precious glass - broken and neatly scattered upon arctic bathroom tiles. Each sliver reflects a single piece of your perfect anatomy. An arm, a leg, an eyeball - a swollen horizontal speck perceiving a soloist’s surrender outside a witch’s mirror. I cried your name in between loathsome waves of solitude this past weekend - weightless letters floating above my bleeding passion like starved vultures gleaning over carrion. Did you know the affection I’ve smothered you with these past thirty years is beginning to smell like dirty nylon socks? I use them now to dampen my bloated eyes. You're fitly ignorant of my extended limbs and repressed sorrows. They covet apparel not filamented with fleece and falsities. Your rehearsed kisses are dressed in dull razors - rendering my lips gauged and coarsely cracked. I took a shotgun to the nightlight last evening and prayed as I reached for you through strands of tattered muslin. I was hoping to grasp a parcel of your fading glint and humbly touch your jagged aura - I foolishly cut my hands.