Another day back into the bellows. Another race lost in the stretch, the length of limb, the weight of shadow. A little something to keep beneath your pillow. This little taste to get you through. All the sorts of salt we sort through and we miss a few molecules. Even as the eyes tremble meeting your unwavering gaze. Wings clipped back in the design stage, we are all lessons of the fall. The words go wandering, the mind all moonlight and the deep blue sea. Fingering the details, our devils on demand.
I only know the imaginary and the ache. Your smile split between ghost and show, your eyes telling me all the things I want to know. There’s no question it’s a story, there’s no guessing at the gaffe. The way we wish so hard on the bones of some moment we never really met, the way we long in the languor and the loss. Another slow assault of evening, another failed campaign of night. I sit and spill over in wastes of weeping. I sit and ache after life and limb. I say it waking, your name on the tip of my tongue.
What to make of these lavish embarrassments of mistaken equivalence? What to do with these bodies worn off the rack? The compass of least resistance pulling out your path. End to end, this vast magnetism that compels you, the word unto. Some assembled pleasure, the watchmaker in the dark, a evident deftness revealed. The belt and the blindfold, the confinement of the stricture, the hand directed to the flesh. The plead imperative a whispered prayer, the oath imparted lips. Another night of imagined attentions and bowing by the book.
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