The light dwindles in the way it always does, the sun going down and the sky growing dark. The flesh purges ink and whispers, always speaking to the unyielding past. The word and the way, another mystery extinguished, another flame doused. Dusk unravels beneath your native tongue. Night another forgivable sin melting in your mouth.
You are ever the burning branch, the mission of thistles beneath a given touch. You are that bouquet of bite and bloom, that language waiting unspoken, sleeping at the bottom of the sea. You are the stone's throw and the crow's flight, the song that does not end. You are the wound and the wonder, that soul caught on the wind. You are the scar that reminds me how close far away might end.
If the world worked out, I would watch you as the sun set. If dreams came true, I would see you by the sea. Instead I wake to a world full of shadows. I go to sleep on the edge of knowing too much. The die is cast, the play is in motion. It is always too late somewhere in the world. It's all over always about to begin. The night plods on, certain and aloof. You are my latest thought, the last before all the lights go down.