The wind is always waking up, the light is always ailing. Letters that I sent myself in need of misspelling. Something about the way the ache unravels the moment, something about how the song leaves your lips insists. I scrape my hand, I scuff the dust. I reach into the dark and the distance, my touch somehow always missing you the most. The magic of this least resistance, the echoes of every familiar phrase glistening on your flesh. The world is always undone by your habit of absence. The stage another open door.
We speak in tropes and rituals, we breathe in oblivions. The moment left and the moment started, the serpent devouring its tail. The fleet words of our assembled demons, the lost spark caught and given skin. We whisper into the stagnant space beyond the sky, worms withering on the pavement trying not to think about the boot. We loose our ghosts upon every flesh not haunted by our flesh, each turn and tumble anon skinned with-in our minds and set into the ether. The words once loose too late.
These are the customary measures and scribbles, the condensations that equivocate our consciousness, the knot of the symbolic binding us to the lurking world. The sunlight casts its shapes and tendrils, the gaze of the ever hungry heart. We wave our whispered oaths before us, seeing our breath as it thickens into gray fog and glistening beads. We witness our thoughts in the mirror, mistaking that reflection for that glimmer of sentience. I drop my feet along the path in the most need of trampling, I dance this fusillade of artful ache. The scratches that scathe the skins of matter with these suggestions of intent. I want you wrapped entirely inside my touch, these spelled wishes and limping incantations. The chill of footprints meeting the will of the rising wind.
