Life's a mystery. The stars venture us only ghosts, so far and sharp and brittle. Hinting only of a depth that we could not see. Whispering mass through every scar and fissure. The beauty is always the hardest part, out here where the words thin down.
I grant your grace is mostly architectural, that modest posture strictly always swaying, acknowledging the weight of weather, the pallid hand of atmosphere in filling out the differences. I see the thought built into that honest skull, so bright with that act of burning. You hold still, as if in flight. You cast shadows with a gentle smile. It is the strength with which you cease to wear the world.
It is true, though that isn't why I say it. I am honest though all these reasons are wrong. The gravity of this want that awakes these needs with-in me. How faithfully you hold all these secrets, these conspiracies of love and limits. How artfully you dodge the answer that can only make you whole. You are lovely in these bounds and breaks. The moon hidden above mountains in winter. The winds embracing the breadth of the ocean each night.