I leave my mark in spilled coffee and scuffed up shoes, the imagined stations of self suspiciously abandoned, the ship long since lost at sea. I am the munitions of another time, the technique provided by the gaps and spaces between these worlds. The words conspire upon each line. The words breathe out their emptiness. The world is the press of shadows inside my ribcage. The world is the sound of water to the drowned.
Do these stains and scar remark upon discovery? Do they long to tell their tales and field their reasons? The love letter addresses you from some point in the past, the story of these origins, the shine arriving from some long lost star. Always something better measured by the cup, always some wishes aching to pose your bones. The point on that map of time, where they draw all the monsters and dragons. The heart and hush of some want of other, this revelation only alight in your eyes.
I have come to the age of shadows. I have reached the end of my halls. There may be a smile, there might be a candle. Some small urgency shared, some stir of hip and tongue. There may be nothing but unpacked boxes. Entreaties no-one would bother to send. A name I learned to listen for, so there was nothing left to hear. A call I knew would never come before I learned it was all I wanted. The slow dissolution of arisen awareness, the knowing that mostly you were mistaken, the weight of every moment spent wrong. I say I love you as if I mattered. I say I love you as if you could know.