All at once the open book your life was slams shut, no marker or memory set to tell you what it was. The pages thin enough to cut all flutter and fly, caught upon the next wind, the next weather up. The streets are swept with sirens and headlights, the tricks and treats now few and far between. The porch light swarms with spiders and moths, some small comfort left in these clear reasons. An owl pierces the sky, shrieking its signal unseen from above. Forget your place, or even trying to find it. No-one was ever going to read that thing anyway.
The details are slowly sloughed away. Forget your place, forget your wounds. The weather is all they talk about. When the storm, then when the sun. The whole world written as flood or drought. The whole world written off as conversation, a few words to ease the tragic gaps between. Settle in amongst your latest strangers. Settle down between the seasons and the signs. They paint all the trains, they call down the rain. They know you as the ground you stand on. They know you by what they can take away.
The road ahead is slick with rain. The road ahead is lit by the moon. There are always other stories unfolding. There are countless wishes wasted every living night. The stars are out, the clouds abound, all the shortcuts and collisions of the transit between tongues. You have run hot or cooled down, placed amid these uncertainties. Nothing to know of the unwritten, nothing left to say save what you know. Open the book, some of it might as well ring true. Open the book, there are bound to be blank pages left. Feel it in your heart like god. Feel it on your face like rain.