Another moonless night, another velvet sky riddled with the uncertain assertions of stars. Secret lights pushing shadows out into the trees, the wind jostling every hair and limb. The tart smoke of burning pine sweetening each breath, out here on the rusted spire, out here on the broken spoke of gravity. It seems the farther you look, the less there is to see.
Rough red paper and safety scissors. Candies of chalk and chocolate, of marrow and caramel. Lucky charms and liquor quizzes, voices lit with wax and vapors. The bit lip and bitter kisses. Pressed flesh and bible flowers, the reminders and remainders of all this wishful reaching. Paper hearts lingering longer than those of flesh and blood. That tattoo of hope that beats on, alive in each slipped missive, in every beaming glance.
Eye close, weary and coffee black. Tired of watching the littered sky progress, the owls wings and spectacles of all these far flung spells. They open, fixed on that hidden horizon, that day as of yet unlit. The haunted halo of these little cities, the silver ribbons and tattered palms of peripheral California. Roads unseen laying open in the vast distance, welcoming all the troubles that have left, and all those driving all night to arrive. The love letter yet unwritten, the romance of split stone and sore muscle still lingering along the border of hope where all possibilities begin their ceaseless marching. The night as dark as eyes, as lit by all this ancient and unlikely shine.