The aching hour arrives unbidden, separating autonomy and automatic into their own spheres, casting that common magic of rinds and resin. The upright bass bowed for a moment, the unstrung sentiment the tone of shadow struck flesh. I follow the usual revels, the idle hands, the bitter dregs. The songs of cobwebs and caterwauls, the impressive weight of your absence running through my veins.
There are mysteries that infect my mind, simple truths that only your flesh reveal. The brush strokes of your unbound hair, the riddle of your fingers, the lavish persuasion of your grasp. The depths of refraction puzzled between your thoughts and eyes, how your bright lenses seem to luminesce with-in the tension of the object and your gaze. The music of your spine, the heavenly press of your hips, the casual elegance of each limb left to its own spells and hungers. That spent breath kiss that shares each emptying, lips and teeth and tongue. Such secrets can only confound distance, held so long so tight.
Outside there are stars and foot falls. Outside there are locks and doors. The rusted chain sound of a cat climbed fence, the chime and peal of ordinary things bewitched by the wind. Everything is overwhelmed by the space that you will not imbue. Frayed nerves, unsent letters. The imagined expanse of your skin passing through the fevered explorations of rough hands and hungry jaws, thoughts passing like prayer beads into vapor and the strummed-on bass. The haunted comedy of human existence, how empty is so much more than full, you thread through everything loved less. Untouched and ravished, you never let me bear this loneliness alone.