voyeur

It is arrows for hours and hours, heaven run out on a rail. The plane suddenly a compass of bare intent appearing right above, gracing the bright eyes of the horizon, reminding me to keep my place. Shins itch from deliberate insects, biting alongside the ice in the air. I stare at my feet, shod in cheap worn out slippers. I stare into the mud below my toes, and finally the rain comes down.

It is just the last breath of a fleeting storm, in and out over the course of a couple dozen hours. Only just long enough to remind you of this still dry winter, leaning against the window, playing your own game. The want and the wait carved into the rise and rest of your ribs, your touch and flesh lush and idle. The chill of the season whispering all the reasons glass sets upon your skin. Goose bumps, and the view grayed by the dense settling of your breath. Words aching against tongue and tooth, the truth still so much more too much.

I scrape and drag away from that last rain dance, the dogs wild in the mud, the cat coming down the scrub pine. The wind pitches them hard and tight, all bite and balk and brush backs. The wind leaps and sputters, spattering rain well past the reach of the almighty sky. Droplets paint stripes after my heels, some vague threat or old-time reminder. The rain falls and grants my last direction. No matter how lost how long, there is at least that path that you made. A figure in the window, shadows pushing into the night.