The day is gone, that's the sum of it. The day has left and there is nothing to be done. I just hang out at the edge of the shadow, listen for some singing of the precipice. I just think of you in graphic detail, moving slowly through the breathless corners of my desires. I think of you when the distance feels the worst. I think of you as close as kisses, and I know what life is for.
I get lost along the instant, I wander too far in the dark. My heart resigns itself to the road that is left, my mind casts its usual foolish spells. The weight of the very firmament, the lonesome crush of haunted stars, time and distance only names for the limits of this skin. This dream of you an imposition of my closest calls and dreary decline. The wish of a fool to be a king.
The years stroll by as the world unwinds, an idle mind grows wanton and wild all alone. The roads grow few and narrow, always winding their way through some familiar mystery, all thoughts so typical and strange. All the stars and bars of gray, the sliver of that too soon moon. The silhouette of a cat climbing up the roof changes shadows. Old songs and generic regrets, and this unwieldy want for you. The music staggers and changes, all this life a press against the absence of a wished for world.