Tuesday, April 5, 2011

it might come along

The ceiling teems with shadows, the light spills on the floor. The cool air of the early evening crawls through the screen door. I stretch out on the couch, tallying words and spiders. The night eases by, and I waste more than my share.

The moon is gone, so the television spills its light instead. Dark windows and porch lights, moths and strays and skies creased with owls. A car idles just around the corner. The stars make their usual rounds. The night leans against the rooftops, listening for secrets loosed.

This isn't to say that nothing happened. This isn't to say that the days don't flow and the world doesn't turn. My eyes are still, my pockets empty. I haven't shaved in months. The night unwinds, saving its work for other places. You are gone, the moon is gone. Light and shadow, empty and ache. The sense of it might come along. I won't be waiting up.

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