This song is the tumbling of the earth, this song is the spilling of the sky. It is the blood trickling from the flesh, and the ghost hungering at the open wound. It is the work of roots and the way of stones. This song is never the words, just the singing. It is the air at the edge of the atmosphere, all those stars whispering their cold secrets in the language of infernos. This song is always shedding its perceptible skin. The color of a shadow, the color of a kiss. The color of cold water swallowed on a sunny day.
In her stillness, she still sings. That touch of light, that caress of shadow. With a move she banishes all doubt, leaving all the clinging and the aching in her wake. One move, and she is the soul of certainty, centered and glowing, wild and unfailingly polite. Even her distance is a kindness, too close only bound to bruise an ill prepared heart. In her nearness, all darkness gathers. Her gaze promises what mere flesh could not endure.
The song is only the start of this oblivion. Midnight skies rife with unseen wings, every being too warm and alone. This song is all phrasing and relief, the long sustain that speaks of enduring loss. She is rhythm, she is sway. The timbre of the reckless tide, the limber dance of light upon the endless procession of waves. This song is the long journey at last at an end, the wind just every breath falling in mad release. The stars scatter their gifts unbidden, the night crawling blindly through the streets. She waits, indifferent and amused. She waits for her singing to end.