I am sitting here with the window open. I am sitting here with the brand burning down. I would stare and stare, if only your skin was there. The thunder that rumbles up from the gravel, the story that glory would have you declaim. A burble of words hung on pieces strung from the storm outside, rain on the rooftops, a mouthful of petrichor and incidental percussion. I have forgotten most of what I know. The moon is waning, or so I’ve been told.
I am sitting here measuring the desperation. I am sitting here observing the bounds of each breath, the wheeze and thud of the bellows, the clumsy clamber of the heart up the stairs. The constant trade of eye for sky, the gray for gray of any given day. A stranger in clumps of soil and soul, all that there is that isn’t. Every revelation a calculation, these insistent integers to frame every thought and spasm, each gasp slips as you lose your grip. Held to the gathered matter, crafting clumsy alibis.
I am uncertain of my footing, unfaithful to my feet. I am cast like shadows, I am drawn like lots. The runaround has gone around until it has become a fundamental force, the grift so thick it sticks to the teeth and torments the tongue, a compass left with a sacral pole. Another long night creeping down the street, clouds gathered and wishes without stars. The windows take their cue from the passing traffic, rattling out of rhythm as they do their little dance. There is no cure and little consolation. Everything is weather and obsolescence. Only psychopathy and curated cages.