The storm whispers on in, the slenderest thread of breath and threat. Just a little something in the air, wind through the fingers and rain slipped across lips. Just another pressing of a hushing finger, before the world again is undone. A train sounds on this new moon night. Ghosts all lingering just below the skin.
So goes this life of waiting for rain and thunder. So go these nights of television and steam. The change of tense, the strengthened intention. That picture we never quite find with our eyes. The words that we spend again and again. I follow the trails of years and fingers. These symbols that weep days and drops of blood.
Right there I stopped, then I stopped again. You inhabit this flesh as you inhabit a house, different rooms as differing stations. Doors and windows and lights left on. The sun so sunken, the words all lost. The hope for storms another haunting, the past always shining just beyond the horizon.
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