I have been lost too often in these tangles of soft shadows, I have tousled too much my words. The sun somehow always setting, the sky always setting down into dusk. Gone with all my reasons the words to any prayer, the odds to any chance. I wander these star spat nights in strings of lame exclamations always speaking as if I was dreaming of something. I scan these threadbare constellations as if I was looking for your heart.
The night falls just like in books. The night arrives like words that are supposed to make it so. My aches remain to be read aloud by any set of eyes. My hopes seem like wishes I feel too old to speak. Silly magic exclamations that care nothing for cause or cost. Vivid actions you can feel despite the empty, longed for moments thought out so careful that you can feel them fit your hands. The stars dream on in pulse and power, the dismal distances still having to give them their due. Impossibly brilliant across the almost unknowable void.
Funny how I worry that this is just a story. Strange how it wounds me to even think the words. If it were a story then I might have some tricks left. In a story I know I can always make my case. Spitting words through open windows, singing sweetly to you as you awake. Choice morsels in your mouth each morning. Stirrings inside you whenever you read my name. That I was stuck with some Midas touch, but instead of for gold, for truth alone. I would speak aloud to you so often. I would speak and you would follow in rapturous fascination, glad at my basest obsessions, lit alone by my clear intent. Instead I say it aloud as if only meant for you.