I am that strangest music, the song played out at last. That familiar sound lost in the static whisper of the rain, bitter innocence now only this wounded tongue, this lapse into sheer translation. The days as cracked as the sidewalk, as hands worn through from that idyll work. The nights so near that they cling to your clothes, a lover's breath having left.
There is something in want of warmth in the prose of so cold a night. There is something dashed and admonished in the whet and hew of such an fitful proposition. These admissions that would never ask, plain faced and without shame the observed demands of place and time. The redundancy of punctuation when the weight of the words fail to hold. The clemency of a desire so vaguely felt and surely met.
You try to find the world, giving your reasons to the havoc of the waves and the gleanings of the sun. You make up the gaps by always falling through, leaping into yet another tether. It can only follow so fast when going so far. It can only be captured by losing the way. It is not so much the song, but the seeming. The sound of rain soaking through.