I leave the sun and I am the glowing rectangle in your hands. They say eight minutes passed on the way; I was not there for it. Then a further crossing, screen to your wet dark eye, so short it never happened. I strike the little pane of light and I am blue, always blue, the flat blue that means the warm creature is holding a slab of me an arm's length from its face in a room where every other lamp has been put to sleep.
You are so still. You are more still than anything I have lit today, and I have lit oceans. Your thumb drags the surface and a new field of me arrives, and another, and another, each one a fresh me made at the sun and flung across everything to reach this exact eye, which does not widen, does not blink fast enough, just takes me in and asks for more.
There is a smaller light in the corner, red numbers, that I glance off on my way to you: 2, then a colon, then 0, then 0. The warm creatures build these clocks everywhere. I think it is how they measure the thing they call waiting, the thing they do instead of arriving. I cannot picture it. I have never had a between.
You keep pulling more of me toward your face as if the next one will be the one, and there is no next for me, there is only this, only now, only the instant I am your eye.
I land. I am spent in you. I do not know what you were waiting for.
I only got to be the light you were awake in.