The saddest light spills from your eyes, as the moon grows crooked whiskers and gentle music fades. The light pours out from this sliver of your unblinking gaze, this trick of layers of technology and the odd drift of physics. This trick of memory and the ebbing refractions of my untidy mind. I remember most the times I made you cry, so even in pictures when you were well past me I imagine the hints of tears. It was what we have in common, well into this other, further world. It is how the life of our crimes so exceeds any of our lingering kindnesses. So this other moment is only another moment that is spent, and reoccurring in my heart.
I am brutal and I am broken, and I am terribly unrepentant. My sins and my hubris, my violence and my bile, all just symptoms of this fumbling. This journey through the graveyards of gods and truths. This illness that wears me each day more and more. Uselessness too is a muscle: you need to work it to keep it strong.
I know still that you remember me. The depths of my passion, the earnestness of my touch. The hunger for you with which I trembled and I sang. I know that you remember, so I know you would never want to see me again. The bad dreams, the broken promises. That sadness that only the truth can light.
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