They always try to start before I'm there, or wait until I am gone. Such the wisdom of these sheets of glass. So the word on the mountain top. These stories always get around, bets settled, arguments spent. They are the only framework we have to try, the brittle eruptions of day to day life. The moment just whispered as the whisper passed. The event happening just to never have to forget.
It all calls, the rote wisdom of the razor, the train just catching the eye. Close and just as far enough to know a little faith in light. Ends arrive as sure as day, all that paint marbled with languid oil. Things step outside the mirror as oft as naught. The turn of the tongue something leaving fingerprints, like the boot-marks squandered on the moon. You know just enough to envy the rest.
These hands tremble as if in stress, they sing like they were tuned. They spell out the spell of remitting gain for loss. The trailed tears stitched into each skin. The terrible power that comes from knowing only the cost. Finger by finger, touch by touch. The only truth lost skin.
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