Everyday is all wake up and wonder, everything always hurry up and wait. The fever breaks and you barely notice. The moon sails by and it barely makes a dent. A blunt bowl, a glutted sail, a luminous spoon spilling shine in a drive by sky. Not a hint of that as you spin on your heel and get to work. The padding to the picture, the packing peanuts of the words as they aggregate in all the negative space all around it, the margins around the real where the descriptions fit. The move from dream to disclaimer, the singing in your sleep becoming the song droning on. This ache, this absence, this shape that thinking makes around the thought that is gone.
The dark night of early mornings, the reading lamp and all the constellations that got along without you, the absence in the song something about the space in the room. The waves of light fussing with the shadows and humming along with the skins, photons bombard the neighborhood bandwidth jostling loose the sparks. The adjustment to the atmosphere as the scene is set, the temperature and the impending doom. A sip of water and the trickle through the mouth, the small moments and the fleeting joys. Then the rush of thoughts and the map, the heart heavy not this but that. Scale and placement and the current of your urges. The shape and the negative space.
Flesh and phantom, the aches and pains and frets and phrases. The press of the breath against the blazing moment, the drag from perception to conception, the scrapes and bruises as you put it all together. Hungers and appetites and the lingering upon the bones of the one that is missed. The longing in reveled sense and air thickened by the insistent anticipation, the ley lines and the old lists, the ritual spilling in slow ripples along memory and prophecy. The singing of the taken shapes, the droning of the blood’s demands. Every breath a burning down, each thought an effigy, written in the angle of enchantment. This alchemical transmutation of flesh to fuel as your flame burns bright.