Somehow the heat slips in between me and sleep, and I am barefoot pacing the dusty yard. Somehow midnight whiles past, and I am watching moths wave good-bye. It's always something the mind opines. It's always so close, fingers brushing flesh. The hours drawls as if wisdom awaits.
I seek confusion. So sure that my plodding certainty is the wrong straw clenched, I try to find what I do not identify. Kiss me quick and tamp my brow. The night is a fever caught in my eyes. The night is a blur and a lie. The only road defies detection.
When I wrote this, I had almost forgotten. When I wrote this, all I could do was repeat. The same gray shade, the same brief glimmer. The glamour of some woman without a name. That weight of saying asleep beneath my tongue, that name held gentle. I said it then, as if it was new. I will say it again and again.
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