All the words drown slowly, caught in the breadth of this reading, ash the only evidence left. You are a far tide, a rhythm of solemn resignation honoring the knowing that all the facts wear away. Such facts of heat and wax, blood languorous on bitten lips, every burning branch mere parlor tricks. You cough some small remission, a confession to your secret exultation of meaningful error. The old song suddenly clattering softly to the deadpan floor.
I watch some star wander in the illusion of this steady life. I watch the street lights slowly exist in the periphery. I acknowledge these blasphemes and this obsessions, my own aim always a little off-color, clinging just too far below the belt. I think of you, as if such a thought could hurt. I think of you as the sparkle just as the smoke devours, that value laden passage. I imagine all these flags that unfurl within your skin, that nationality of self that you imbue only when the wind finds everything that bends. I watch the night pursue every last shine.
I can only imagine you as I whisper. I can only dream of you in this hush of breath and ache. It is in this touch where I know I can't find you, this distance only real while you are hidden. It is in the hour lost before the bad analogue of time's sands like snow, piling deep and dissolved with the least reckoning of the sun. The way some of us can only lose in stories, explaining away every fault as fate. The way there is no resolution to these ashen passions. The idea everything taken away.