It is in the broken light dangling amid a halo of moths and beetles. It is the fetid water lingering from the last rain, clung to by the brittle legs of mosquitos. The sharpness of the stars, the drift of restless spirits across the deep gray sky, all the writhing of myth and promise that your memory evokes. Dark, tear laden eyes, shining with the knowledge of all that light leaving you. Everything that was thought forgotten, alive and listless, walking naked down the middle of an autumn street.
All those days of rain, all the dreams of wandering, lost roads and imagined houses. The lay of the earth beneath your feet, the quiet doorways, the lonely stairs. My breath so bare without passing through the revel of your hair. Each new breath a fresh exodus beneath the wisps of clouds and lost constellations. Everything strangely broken in your absence, the indifference of objects another exclamation of distance traveled and time spent. Even the solemn silence telling volumes apart from you.
The collage of empty bottles, the shards and scraps and stones. The clotted ashtrays and the dismal sink. Each day a lost poem, whispered to the unkept sky. Every day a prayer spent on hopes as dead as your covens of gods and ghosts. I write your name upon the looming dusk, I trace each letter beneath the seal of the ravening night. Your name, written on the back of every stars. Unseen eyes, welling with aimless tears.