I am singing a song I carved from the bones of your name. I am painting the night with flecks of spit and flurries of curses. There is a hole gnawed through the story. There is a ghost burning at the stake through your heart. The weary fluidics of tongue and soul, spell checks of gods and burial rituals, florid portraits of the world worn inside-out. The miss too long by far, that hallowed absence that burns and burns all the words away.
It is true that I am greedy, it is certain I am jealous, taking every gift of yours as sheer theft. The devil of the details, that hell in other people. Glib inversions meant to jostle the tired driver. Silly glimpses of depths never to be reached for, explicit versions of every dull lullaby, a hint or flicker of nothing noted yet again. I admit no courage, claim no faith. That need to promise as much as naked confession of words previously laid broken. That call of innocence that last refuge in spades and gardens. I bathe in these accusations of ill intent.
It is still that vivid gravity of your step and pause, that etching of reach and retreat. Your every freeze an exclamation, your every hesitation a dance. You fall and fall and make it feel like soaring. I sour at my limits, blanche at the weakness that beats in waves. You radiate such honest blessings you are bound to draw down fire. All the guts and gristle of you, all the heaped flesh and red bones of your beauty. Somehow flecked with cinders and dust, I sing your bright demise.