From the rain falling like the dancing of angels to the rain falling like the ministrations of gnats to the gauzy droplets of stars seen through the mesh of a fog stained sky, the steps seem predictable. All the old tricks, right there on the table. All the small pleasures, bearing the colors of your heart. Taste the metal on your tongue, smell the oil in the air. The dripping car idling beneath the street light. Morning papers wrapped in plastic, casting drops of light.
Sometimes it is the curve of her spine. Sometimes it is the trickling of smoke from her smile. Sometimes it is the inky wings she wears upon her shoulder blades, granting wishes and leaving traces. The air will smell of her just as it will sometimes smell of rain. Waking I can taste her whisperings on my tongue. Every day I breathe out something I should have said. Every day ends just the same.
Things are never sorted out with mildewed poems and stiff legged promise. Things are never better for the time that has passed, but for the miles on the memory. That warning light that is stuck somewhere behind your eyes, the dashboard gleam I swallowed with your shine. I tangle in phantom limbs and spider silk, knocking the dust from these old volumes, invoking the usual hosts and flames. Somewhere you worry a lamp shade or crease a pillow with your dreams. Somewhere there is one touch that lingers long enough.
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