Wednesday, February 2, 2011


There is nothing that does not nettle. The way your skin radiated sunlight, the way your hair smelled of the sea, all those tangled nights so near to forever. That this life is traffic and missteps, that the winter sun will burn my flesh, that I am bound to this world by the tensile strength of beauty and dreams. My opening bid is that of adversary. My opening line is almost always goodbye.

The moon is all but gone, and the winter has settled its teeth into my flesh. The rooftops are dusted with constellations, the glimmering remnants of campfire stories and origin myths. Each street begins another tale, every sidewalk is littered with indifference. Cars drive by, into and away from the night. The hour waxes as the moment wanes. I haven't a thing to say.

There is too much living left swaddled in steel. There is too much time wasted punching a sorry clock. A soul boiled down to sentiment and vitriol clanks and steams along. Tell me there is a difference that will leaven the sum of all these partings. Tell me there are bullets left to shut off all this light. Tomorrow lingers just past the horizon, an oath of warmed air and bent tongue. Someone is waiting, a dreamer made of faith and fevers. Something is coming, an aim masquerading as an end.

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