lapsed

It is the hour of the pitter natter, the words herded close and set to telling. It is the hour of the appetites, every skin lit by want and burning, the light left on well past the look. The time of pillow talk and breathless abandon, of flickering feelings and restless flesh. When we would breathe our goodnights against our bared desires, passions pressed like flowers in the Bible, the symbol also a sign of the sacrifice. When our ghosts would run barefoot through the halls of our heart, waking every hunger, touching all the ways.

Letters hold their folds, fading as they age, holding onto a lost moment with the weight of words and paper. Bent and boxed up, all the stories that have since broken, proven untrue, or simply had their day waiting to be unleashed upon this world that proves them wrong. The song that held no traction in your past all at once on top of the playlist. The words you missed the first time around back to jump you in. They linger at the warm spot where your heart used to be, waiting for time to turn in its badge. 

Now the moment speaks in itch and whisper, always scratching after it and saying what? The things said so long ago they’re dead upon reading, the things said so long ago they always ring timeless and true. Memories of want, memories of passion, the taste of their kisses, the picture in the frame. On the losing end of some lapsed romance, hands in pockets, kicking rocks. On the sundown side of a same old story, alone in the dust. Dwindling down another night, wanting everything.