Don't look to me to show how dark the distance, don't ask me to place the points on all those stars. My eyes cross letters written in crows flying west towards their roost, my sight is scratched by the last lingering shine of an airplane shrinking north. All draw and hum, all sigh and scratch. The roof touched by the swaying of tree limbs. The sky only known by how fast it falls away.
The hour is told in empty glasses. The moment is known in the melting ice. Spilled static, goose flesh. The misspelled and the misspoken, the glass of touch, the stutter of taste. Heat swollen in narrow halls and smug rooms. Time cluttered in the corners, turning into dust and shadow.
You are always this measure of absences, this weight of never really there. The whispered insistence of an unseen existence, the rustle of some mythic fabric, the scuffing of slippery heels. Not so much the light but the horizon. Not so much the word but the way. I speak aloud, or at least pretend to. Saying something, or at least making the shapes.