We slowly dissolve, just trees and moonlight. The pale slab of sky, the dense hush of earth. We all but whisper away, driven by the thrill of cold air on warm flesh. We all but boil down to bones, awake and adrift in all this empty. Something in the story of a razor and tap water. A scraping of the face, the steam from the spout.
The split sidewalk, the dismal chain fence. The depth of the night measured by the light from the door, arms outstretched, wishing for return. That lonely frame, that figure within. This life burned down like any bridge. This life always endured as smoke. That cusp of the light and the fire. This one moment when even heat surrenders.
I wake in a fog, I sleep with poor directions. The crackling of bones and intention. Something was lost that I never found there. Something was slipped away in the night. These mornings that drawl on and on. The voice of reason driving too fast too far. The honeyed tongue of hope slowly melting into just so much more moon.