White Moments

The white moments,
blank moments,
between one thing and the next.
He's left with only himself,
discovering
the whispers drowned
by static chatter,
too much color.
They find a full voice
in the bleached landscape
infinitive space-time, sterile
liquid white-out
running down his forehead,
into his eyes,
creeping near the tear ducts
and the corneas.

Kill the static.
Kill the static.
So that you can hear us
all the time.
So many things to tell
with silence.
So many things to see
if you only close your eyes.
Feed the White.
Feed the White.
Come home,
come in,
let us in.

Blinking, reeling, sputtering
on the outside, quiet,
coming to himself
from a far distance,
an immeasurable distance.
She asks if he's ok,
face pale,
color draining.
Oh, no, no, no.
She keeps draining,
swirls like water down a sink,
nothing there.
“Stay here with me,”
he says,
but she fades,
a washed image.
He feels a prick,
grabs the back of his neck,
turns to see
the fanged whiteness smiling.

This was the one I wanted to share during class, but was too chicken. Wrote it a few days ago.

-Strix