It’s the music that they make out of you, though I’m one to speak, I do the same thing too. The feel that permeates, the stories made out of your space. The way sometimes you’re the all that shines in any golden moment, the gold where all else is gray hinting silver, bathing brightly in the mind. I only say to be mindful of all the singing when I deign to say it. There’s nothing to be done, with more nothing yet to do. The Holy Ghost or the Hot Skillet Mama, another point of no return, another gaffing of the wheel. Still that song that makes you want to sing along.
The day is held like smoke, the sky only a migration, sore in the shoulders from the breath you held. The light beating bright across the silvered heavens, eyes spent in the long ago, heart a droll constriction. The fence split in rails of green light, the overwhelming urge is always to stare, always to look your absence in the eye. Another breeze blows by, another kiss or touch. The old wail cuts across the road, the horn blown inside out. The moon as the host, the wolf in the fold.
Once you look away, you never see it again. Something in the angle of the eye, something in the luck of the landing. Out along the furthest dispatch, the gravity playing out. The stages of the static, the signal once it wanes. A skinful of soot, a skinful of sleep, the unreasoned reaches of the imponderable deep. The call of the moon, the clutter and the calm and the mind all but gone. The lean of the light, the sky steep upon its withering gaze. I stare and stare, the way eyes can fill, the way night can shine.