I would make a case for calamity, I would fill in every circle, surround every gap. I would argue past the glazed eyes and the sorry circumstance, the fear-fed shivers, the ignorance lit grins. The sweat soaked clothes left piled by the door. It is the evening made longer by the heat, the heart made fonder by this slow drip oblivion. Say that this was the hour we could call our own. Say that we were more than shadows spared shape, words spared life. I would lead unheeding in this rough moment, make a gift of this impending ache. Slowly, I would say your name.
Yes, I only seek solace when the mood is on me. Sure, I only ask once I forget my way. And you are an unknown road, a figure lingering in uncertain light. You are a rhyme and a bloom, a scar lit by moon light, a rattling at the door. You are just the day unbound and the night unwilling, a direction found by dropping a coin. You are someone I wish was you, and probably someone else altogether. All I bring to the table is a certain kind of loss. All I can offer is that notion, somewhere between belief and concussion. Nothing good ever came of a wish made past midnight. Nothing wonderful was ever birthed of watching a clock.
It is scent and salt I long for, a little friction and a shared intent. Just time enough to linger, some work for idle hands. A few more poems swept away in a passion. A few stray bruises and a tumbling of the heart. Another voice let free amid the starlight. Another set of mismatched bones to hold a little too tight. Something at long last left unsettled. Someone who knows better letting herself forget.
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