magnitude

The cold clings, like the sifted light of stars. It clings, that fearsome chill of time beyond knowing. The world slows on and on, the winter wind and the stolen moon. I huddle down here with trees and pavement. That least veneer that is the common character of every life. A shimmer, then a shiver. Darkness always that distance left to light.

I wear the ache and that slip of respite, nature the name of chance just tossed about. Pressed against these planes and schema, pasted over these nestings of breaths and claims, I slip and spill. These failings of rusted steel and rotted wood, of sunken ships and reef wrecked dreams. Standing before the shifting skies, another subtle exclamation beneath the far horizon.

The day begins too dark or bright, and every time too soon. Sleep bereft of your embrace, left glowering in the tangle of lost dreams. Steam from the shower, steam from the cup. Tail lights streaming on beyond the blur of vision. The waking world taking you at your pace, the mystery trailing away.