The light that was left clung to the walls, slipping from each open eye, sticking in all this blood and shadow. Each skin and every flesh, each breath and notion, tide to tide, river to sea. The bent shine of these extinct stars, the albedo of your slippery smile, this confluence of atom atop atom. You cast these spells with each inkling. You change the roads with every whim and turn.
There is a hint of motion blurred against the background. There is a glimmer of spider silk, some lithe suspension, some ancient whispered filaments lit in periphery. The armies crushed beneath careless feet, the multitudes expressed lush in gut and dust. The flesh grays, the bones surrender. I lean against the doorway, lingering between the in and the out. I lean into the empty mirror and the dark window, all tomorrows turning into glass.
There is light resting just outside your window. There are moths battering at your door. The moon dissolves as the sky turns into memory. The air nests close, awaiting your next breath. The magic knits cell after cell, the only known quantity cling and part. In between stone and earth, stitched into every fiber and flesh, something claimed and beckoned abides. These scribbled incantations written on the inside of your heart.