The light endows its luminescence on every slip and skin, cutting through the dusty constellations clinging to the beating of each breath. The fire fed and admonished by the breaking of each breath. So much scuff and tussle, the invoked hues and commanded posture, the press of hands and shine. The hour leans and the shadows loom, this brush of sense and flesh, the memory all grasp and drool and keen. Somewhere there are fireworks, the sound caught hitting walls and hopping gates, echoes playing tag in the maze of night. The candle still flares and drips, the incense long burned out.
Somewhere there are revving engines. A helicopter makes itself a nuisance. The night is all skitter and atmosphere, things going bump out the windows, things thumping around in the walls. The wind rises, the trumpet lows. The old one two and destiny where you put your hands, the moments slowly sinking as you grope and gaze. The door half off its hinges and the other things unchanged.
Maybe you’d still see me if you saw me on the page. Maybe you’d remember if you bothered to look. There’s no there there, or here either, depending on where you are when you look. The space always taking a train, then something about a ball or a bird, maybe a clattering of emphatic chalk. A quick rush of senses, a wash across the flesh, a litany of impacts. Naked eyes and bare limbs and the autocracy of touch. Kisses glistening in the heat and hunger, every breath clinging to the feeling, every word spoken to your skin. This murmur upon the surface, this imminent ascension in the depths. This fire on arrival.
