We were translated from lost languages. We were written on brittle fire. The story just goes and goes. It is never clear what was said before the bets were settled. It is never certain just when that hammer fell. Our lives unwind from these strange entanglements. Our souls are only disappearing ink. The words all hiss and spark between.
There are strange engines at work, and far too many moving parts. The light outside dwindles, I turn on the lamp on the wall. I hear the pulse of strangers leavening the street with there shambling exhortations. I hear the song of some other's heart skipping like a stone. A baby squeals, a motor turns over, there are mosquitoes pestering the peelings of the moon. The night slowly fills all the waiting spaces. The song finds a place to roost.
I only know the distance, never the measure. I only know the lifting, never the weight. Clocks scratch away the seconds, forgetting the first time for everything there is. Lights offer us up to the eyes of the night. I can only make out the broad strokes, never the subtleties that lead you there. I can only know how things seem from this end. We were written, now there's no telling. We were meant once, and now are our only means left.