Forfeit

He is back. He is the bitter black of a painted canvas, the shimmer in the grooves, the edge you think he might have missed and the light refracted from a faraway bulb that draws you near only to step closer and find that it is all still only him. There is no sun here. The rain glazes his surface and in your thirst you drink in the gray until it spills out your eyes. You feel for the ground and press your body down, crawling backwards for a door, for a vent, for a wall, for a safe. There are no corners here. You press the bulb into your hands and inhale once before it shatters. You slice blindly through his tar, his fog, his love until you feel canvas. You tear away at his fibers and run. Sprint. Because anywhere is better than here. And when you stop feeling the burn of his stain in your lungs you finally dare to open your eyes. You wish you never did. There is only him. There will only ever be him.