Still, there will be times when you will see me. Over burdened with blankets, anchored to the cat-scratch leanings of the night. Almost waking in anticipation or fright, I will linger there, smoke marking flesh. Every fire both warmth and warning. I am there like the sudden remembering you swore to never forget. Something always lingering just to leave.
We agree on the names of our disagreements, but it is their natures that write our places. The field always watching, teaching us to love our wolves. The field laden with grasses and rats. We hold these vague locations, only knowing position having finally found the other. We weave our words through these distinctions, casting old and weary spells. The train cries, the moon whispers, the dog next door just has to go and howl. You knew this much about me before we ever met.
I will move through your thoughts like smoke, some promise of warmth and light only to cling bitterly to that smell of burning. Some annoyance spoiling the air, your clothes now tainted remainders of some moment before. Something to shed and drown deep in the habits that greet each day. Something to hold your gaze like your own exhalations, your life blazing in contrast to the chill. Your impression all that will remain. The way we make angels dance, just to tell a tale.
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