Was your spell woven in whispers? Did you leaven your magic into my sleeping skin? I drowse through the workaday world, I toss and turn across the bridge of night. I can not count the amount of times I speak your name without thinking. I can not remember a time when I thought of anyone else. I don't want to watch you and I miss you when you're gone. It is that same old song, played past the reasonable expiration date of dreams. It is that same old song, your name nestled on my tongue as the night wears on.
I only ask to beg the question. I only ask to pass the time. The wisdom implicit in these gray whiskers lets me know there is no knowing. The knowledge etched into my worm-riddled brain is bleeding out slow. I catch sight of some constellation, Cassiopeia a letter scrawled outside the lines, Orion leaning on the eaves. I eyeball one of the wanderers trailing onto dawn, thinking morning star despite the inaccuracies and the hour. The depth of the night as I linger on this bereft street. That name that will not leave my lips no matter how many times it is spoken.
It is so lovely and so ephemeral that even thinking it might dash it into dust and fragments. It is so rare and unlikely that it can hardly help its unendurable beauty. This thought of you that is so unlike thinking. This notion of you that defies the odds and all explanation. All these hard lessons learned only to abandon them. Old enough to know better, knowing that time runs like a river in a rage, I think of you like the wings of forever. Your name rising, carried on my every breath.