Tell me again when you like what the moon gets up to. Tell me again when the dreams get in your eye. From sight to sight, from see to see, your heart made too much of me. The morning would have it one way, the day another. Pretending to be in a world where there are still words between us. Standing at the foot of the stairway in the dark. Something happens, or you say more things. It’s not much, but it’s how we advance the plot.
Sometimes I toss a few more upon the turns. Sometimes I switch on the light. There’s no telling what I’m up to. The ceiling lit and the stories going, the screen to flicker and feed between dreams, shadows outside and looking in. Sometimes there’re songs to play along with, sometimes there’s a book for a breather. I wake up all angst and appetites, wondering where my next tomorrow will come from. The bass line drags by at 5:15 on a hot garbage day morning. The day stirs a little on its own.
I always have more conversation once the conversation is gone. My words get old, the grass is greener, things move on. The sky thinks it over a little. The silence is a slab. Nothing getting going just the gone all along, the breathing broken up into its parts, the longing then the knots that drag it all to ground. The clutch and grip of lung and heart wresting the sky off its hinges. The blood stirs and toils, the animal and the entity holding hands as the cross the roads, the motor in the corridor a low dark growl. The hours before a bloody sun down to a few golden moments. The embers on the altar, the mouthing of the words.