The clamor of strange weather wore down the day, the words spilled as free as contempt. The bright blue crown did little more than blind, while the gusts of thick dust choked and spun. Some sign post missed, some marker spared the terror of acknowledgement, while eyes strayed from the road, running wild over every scale and skin. Somewhere a party sparked and sputtered, a lone beauty curling up with so much smoke and distance. A mocking bird wove the whole sky into a song of flight and fall. This much music, that much missing. The rough coils of a lost romance rusting in the sun.
She wasn't there then; she never would be. The years just slipped on by. The dreams of passion exchanged for whatever dreams follow such pained consent. The life of the flesh so ready for dissolution, the life of the spirit hot grease spattering from the pan. As if her bones were forged from fevers. As if her tears were the fallen stars of her eyes. Never nearer to that faulty marker, the slab of words loosed in her wake. Never closer to the truth than the sweat beaded on her skin.
She is the itch I never reach, that present tense that haunts the past. She is the toothache lingering on the lips of the sweet. That sudden busted gate of the season, a storm made from words and restless breath. The haunted hallways of every day ring and sink, a wasted lash on a mule that has yet to figure he is dead. Her shine is the work against the world, the lies that give the empty air its glow. Strangers clamor all around me. The day burned out from the long unravel. The knife grown dull from missing the cut.