It happens that I forget sometimes my very point of view, always scratching at that itch, the moment that seems bound to be soon. The bow drawn not for shot but to caress that fretted and fingered clear throat. Every note a gentle murder. Every tone some deeper call. So dull and muddled it is just the tune that I fail to carry. So lost to this language that even the least brickwork I fail to convey. Still I stare at you.
It works out that even eyes need context, this gaze needs to fix and form in the reply of yours. Blind by case and color, I stitch to the flex of flesh and the gleam of intent. That further world only you could bestow, that vast distance which only you could contain. The mirror and the photo album. This small altar, this divine song. Whatever the take or flavor, strangers all that we see.
The bitter tenders its letters to the tongue, cold coffee and rancid breath. The dusk bends itself into night. It occurs to me, as always, that maybe I have had my say. Old poems and dusty lyrics, the decades somehow still evade. It is that same poor evening, spotted and scarred. The clouds hiding all the constellations. The moon never quite full enough. It is you, lingering so near. It is you, wherever I have yet to be.