I scuff my measure along tile and carpet, this tread the soil beneath the field, the shuffle of the story plodding on in the dark. The crack of ice resounds down this idling spine, the work of the world entangled in cobweb and dust. Every step a shift and a continuity, all the proof of this wide open universe the stubbed toe and the bumped head. I search the wall with spread fingers, the desperate reach towards the salvation of the switch. I find the light and let it be.
I sleep close to disputed borders, dream and dissolution, mutterings beneath the breath. The clock and creation. The time and the tell. I stretch and turn, slipping in and out of this thin narrative, clotted shadow and the lingering insistence of cream. I fold the pillow, feel the crease and heat of this clipped connection. Hour to hour, I sink and wake. Hour to hour the reasons all come clean.
Somehow I have lost you, the dark windows, the locked box. Somehow I have exchanged you for these slips and tenders of tooth and tongue. The ache in my stride, the mottled flesh of time as it arrives, lit by memory. It struck just like a mystery, it plays out like a dream. Your eyes intent, your face swept by just the least breath of shadow. The heat of you against my kiss. No questions left. Only the lightning flash. Just the countdown calling out thunder.