Somewhere
there is a room
of objects
tainted
by your fragile presence.

The crunch of glass
closes me tightly
throat, eyes, toes gripping.
A halo of fluorescent pink
around his dripping skull.

I avert myself
my eyes
swallowed by the night
and cease to exist.
Fear precipitates on
city fumes,
turning into tiny droplets
that run red rivers.

Somewhere
there is a room
of objects.
It comforts me.