Him

I recognized Him

From is shadow on my wall.

Where He danced, and cried, and seized,

As though the universe could not contain Him

He was covered in glass knives,

And dirty syringes.

They littered His thick skin,

Like the scales of some great, ghastly reptile.

He wore a long, wool coat

And was as tall as the sky.

He wrote novel after lengthy novel 

About how things may have been,

If it weren't for the weight of the planet upon his frail shoulders.

His sharp little rows of shark- teeth,

Grazed my soft, white skin

Like a blade to the neck of some sacrificial lamb.

He smelled of metallic blood,

And  Lucky Strikes

(The only kind He likes),

And parchment paper,

And old ghosts,

And maybe, if I found Him

on a good day,

At half past nine on the dot,

He may smell a bit like sex.

He was an idea,

A fragmented man made of millions of little mirrors,

Reflecting my own dark eyes.