Name me after any star you follow. Call me from whatever road may roam. The skies will bleed, the blood will,curdle, the cry that comes so quick too close. Our days unwind as gossamer wire. Some strange contagion meant to be carried aloft by the whim of the wind. The least tremble of startled flesh awakens this dissembling, the way you arrive at the mark on the map. The name pressed against that scintillating edge of perception threaded through the gaps. The way the match struck abandons every surface to the burn.
The sun finds my skin as the afternoon lingers. The pines stretch their dry extremities, touching heaven with so much kindling, each measure limb and needle and the unwavering will towards life. A crow falls from on high, its throat a loosed arrow, its call piercing the bright and the blue. It circles wide, looking for some morsel to appease some slice of empty, a meal or a mate or some ached for spark. We are here and we are gone. We are driven by these hungers, we are lost upon the endlessly unfolding story of every enduring tide. The sun touches me, kin and sustenance and a story someone told at once. These things that inside that may only follow the light.
I am the branch pruned for the sake of the tree. I am the phantom limb, aching from this tome of never was. These words never to be written, these things that cannot be unsaid. Slowly all hope comes unraveled, each dream is undone. They find the stories that fill their blood and unburden their conscience, invisible whispers crackling in these mystery receivers, saying everything will be alright. This wind blows right through me, howling and hushing through my emptiness. We teem from these wounds we make with our legends, we swarm from the scars made from scratching the words straight upon the skins. Call by any name that happens on you. Whatever answers knows its place.