Static

The light in here is cruel and bright,

it shows the ink stain on my head.

I’m looking for the ghost of white

among the brown and tired thread.

It’s wiry, like a copper wire

that lost its color in a fright.

A tiny, pale and silver fire

sparking in the middle of the night.

The tweezers rest upon the sink,

the porcelain is cold and chipped.

I’m standing on a narrow brink,

my youth is something that has slipped.