There is a calm in the tension before the reach, that first birth of touch lighting the mind. That strange rise of foam when the sea is lathered by the wind. The storm bringing clarity by blurring every detail with ablution. So much for seeing, when the song is thick in the air. The music sliding between the seams, the song sweet and exasperating. Cold fingers vying for heat with want itself.
We pass the need for disguises, waking so early in the soft cold light. We give up the core of deception, living in these convenient skins. The envious dreamer, writhing in the feel of the drawling unwind, every thread towed into hushed distance. Every unravel the gavel falling on the distinction of past from present, from pleasure to ritual sigh. The sun arrives, and the words follow the times.
You can take this as a letter, written restless in a train station. You can take this as a wish, made before boarding a plane. The contract arrives in place of reckless contraction, the universe trembling like some stoney shore. You can feel your feet finding footing, straight through the soles of your shoes. Every pebble, the roadway gravel. Each echo an admission of facts that never were. You can take it anyway, rising in the night.