The first drops of sunlight sit still atop your forehead;
your skin’s milk fusing with the white underneath.
Every atom of your being rises slowly as you breathe
as if composed of fragments laid out where you’re spread.
Leave a part behind. When you disperse today
allow the particles to drift away between my fingertips,
so that I may later find molecules within the threads
of my identity. So that your aura may one day eclipse
mine. The white underneath lies now serene,
but the creases conjugate together like scales.
The straining surface jolts at my touch,
fingers enveloping the mind that failed.
Incessantly staring down this screen,
but sending has always been too much.
Words by James Huxtable
Photo by Lucy Harbron