Because the days go on and on, because the mirror won't ask the right questions, because the door is open and the weather's cool I fill in the blanks as I go. The rise of tides, the gaps between, ache is an arrow already loosed. From those steely blue heavens to the rigorous portion of burning black hells, I always somehow miss the moment, I somehow always lose my cue. There is the sort of heart that goes with looking through drawers, the kind of eyes that are always gazing through the blinds. This is how I find my way, writing in the changing ice.
The mood persists though all else fails, the words run astray and the pictures play havoc with the mind. The bitter breath that slicks your tongue and leaves your lips, the blown kisses of yet another life. The grit in each smile, the bite in each offered balm. There is always something speaking to you, saying things you will not understand. There is always some straying wonder, some sense that falls upon you like the shadow that makes you prey. All these stars that weigh in when silence would serve much better. All these stars so far apart that you would be better served to wish on the distances between them.
I say how sad and lost I am, I speak to the loneliness that takes up most of my life. I see how a word will wear against another, the metaphor phrased so that the bridge between the meanings burns, the tongue extending its to shape and tame the feel. I speak aloud in these dim waning hours. I speak aloud to the clinging dust and spiders. It is written down because there must some scrap worth saving. It is written down because I just keep looking for the words. Art is the polish earned from pacing the floors down. Art is what's left from losing the whole of a life. The moment slowed down, the river frozen. The beauty left of all of this falling away.