It happens as it does, it must happen again and again. The wheel turns, the stars burn, people live their lives and sing their songs. I lean hard into an empty night, aching and breathing slow. The clouds linger in the quiet streets, the very air a suspension of belief. The depths of these deep blue moods linger on the doorstep, stand alongside me, squaring shoulders, practicing watching the drift of wit and heart. The cob-webbed wind-chimes twist and clatter, pale bells in the porch-light. Something, then some other thing, then again an old feel comes again anew.
Cold water swallowed from a plastic glass. An ashtray filled with flecks of brown, gray, and black. A moon in the mood to prophesize, a cat scrambling along the roof. The weight of tasks yet undone, the lapsed gaps yawning from the past. That which will change, that which no longer can. The chance, the road, the revel, the gutter, the dawn and the again settling of accounts of the sun-- all is yet and ever. A life once opened is always pouring forth. Like her hair, loosed from a ribbon. Like these hands, freed from restraint.
Like all doomed romances, like all cold moments, this is the one I leave with. Houses clotted with faithless strangers and beaten dogs. A fog that follows, troubling my shoulders with whispers and regret. The lights that reveal just enough to lose what is left of soul and sight to shuttered windows and rumored lanes. Traffic that passes in a crush of fumes, trailing a little taste of leaving. The cat that keeps crossing what I thought was my path, breath sweet with blown kisses and secrets kept. Backlit by the future hurtling past me, I stagger ahead to the future hidden up the way. The lonesome footsteps fleeing while tomorrow is just over the horizon line.