The idle fire of this winter sun has all but burned down, leaving a sky like sallow faith lingering on the skin. Plumes of dust and unsettled embers, trees fill with shadows, abiding this slithering sense of self. The name that fails to find a tongue, the face that stills, another portion of bone and flesh dancing in feel and fact. The frantic yapping of unhinged dogs ringing every roof and door. Houses settle in the hinted warmth of hushed windows and electric light, the smell of smoke embedded in every moment alive. The sun glides beneath the horizon, this world of wonder loosed like doves.
The coffee clings to the steel of the cup, its bitter secrets swallowed like that old time religion, its heat a rumor best left to the digression of the senses. Dusk comes along with its typical bag of tricks, homebound birds and the glitter of distant prophecy. Stars parse the breadth of eternity, the sky flickering with the promise of every visible wish. My heart climbs up the steps of each breath and incantation, breathing in this tide of a life so far survived. Blood mingling with the atmosphere, everything connected and alone.
The hours trod on, step by step, breath and heartbeat. The slow fizz of subatomic indistinction, the turn of the wheel, the rise of the road. The umbrage of this existence sung in ache and pain, in lore and sign. The indistinction of soul and secret. The mystery so evident in all we cannot know. Sense and flesh always indistinct, any separation bequeathing only things and pieces. I speak in this slow elocution, the clumsy cadence of this peculiar incantation. The air around you aware of your every thought and glimmer, I'm there with you alone.
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