white

and i look into you but more through you, a white bowl full of white rice, so many little pieces inside stuck together, and all the same absence of colour.
and i am thinking thoughts like algebra and one plus one equals two, but if so why am i alone here,
on this couch, heavy like sand pulling off my shoes
and walking through the cold air of a wet forest by the beach,
the same place i was when i saw you for the first time,
woven behind trees and laced in the roots and bark,
and you are soft like pulled cotton, the branches cutting fingers
and the blood of my hands staining the pure white.
staining the pure white.