The hour burns low, the questions on a boil. How bright the night, how weary this flesh so worn and ruthless? The sky so far and tattered, the moon too high and white. The stars flicker, just common sparks adrift. The wind spills and scatters, whispering secrets lost to the moment. The curtains puff and billow, sails lilting in the filtered light.
The air stills, the room goes quiet. The walls lean in, soft with dust and shadows. If only the heart could slow and pause. If only the night would curl up and sleep. My hands are dry and restless, following some unseen webs, crippled spiders crawling blind. My eyes just pace and wander, sifting through the differences between the surface and the shine.
I stick to the uncertain places. I cling to the world through salt and thirst, through aimlessness and appetite. My skin remembering only by sharp and burn, by itch and absence. Each moment filling in for the slipped soul of the last. Each thought caught upon the flutter of some wishing star. The world gone away, the room as far as I can see.