The truth just trickles down your chin, all these stars and sighs and watermarks. Glib sparks that light and heat your smile. The machinations gone up in smoke, the soul gone down in flames. The tale followed into the woods, the crushed mutters of dead leaf and broken wing. Something in that air that bends the air toward ghosts. Something in the dust and humus, the open grave of the slow dissolve.
The crossroads wait in warning, these stories of travelers and mistakes in the dark. The humble dusk, the finger prints of smudged grease and soot. The first words ever spelled out in that dust. A marker by the trail, that sudden stack of stones. These ancient sayings salting our bitter fields. These oldest voices weighing on our bones.
The night arrives. I miss your light. The press of your hip, the heat of your flesh. Those blissful fumblings from the borders of some wished for world. The simple facts that arrive as poetry. The creak and yawn of the dark against the windows. The strangeness of every bed without you.