Version Two
Cold morning looking back:
it's been six years since yesterday.

The outside world is white-glaring
under a new sun that's seen but barely felt.
The sunshine is just warm enough
to make my old blood run;
just warm enough
to make the cold day real.

I turn to face the warmth.
My back freezes.

I walk towards the sun.
My shadow stretches out
six years long behind me.
Distorted and tapering,
blind and frozen:
the residue of myself
left behind with each step.
The nothing that is everything.
The me the sun won’t touch.

My back is frozen.
My skin a scab of ice.
My neglected shadow follows,
felt but out of sight.

I walk towards the sun.
Nothing breathes out here.
Nothing breathes wide and heavy.
Nothing lives out here
except the space
where my feet meet my shadow.

I’ve been out here six years
trying to catch up.

Everything is white, glaring.
Enough to make my old blood run.
I turn to face the warmth
and look down at footfalls.
My feet never leave the ground:
they always touch the earth through shadow.

Everything is cold air and gravity.
Everything is heavy with static.