utility

So it is with things that are broken. So it goes with the time once it's spent. Sort these stragglers by shape and color. Sort them into blacks and blues. No-one will remember the order. What is there to know about an absence once it is gone?

Faceless days and sleepless nights, each mistake a nest of knives, each credo a swarm of swords. Scratch at the fresh wounds, leave the stars to seek out the old ones. The weary bones sing out your secrets as you walk. The hands that tremble when they are left with a need to speak. The words that fall like spent brass to the pavement. Evidence or salvage, depending on the leaning of the witness and the fading of the moon.

The days are laid out in dull strata, fresh dust to discuss, thick loam to long after, and the fossils we think will explain us. The songs we sing along to, despite the absence of any music playing. The constellations laden with light and stories. The crippled limits that somehow still leave us wanting. There was more once, not only this mean measure. Not only the driftings of so much waste and wander.