talking to yourself

You lock the door, but the wind still slips in. Loose pages flutter at this trifling breeze, some poor acknowledgement, some nod of assent. Little moments dissolve, bitter slips of that last sacrament. The dust dozes in the false brilliance of this electric light, the bottle opened and the djinni freed. Animals doze all over.

You think to that moon this morning, drowning in a tide of mottled clouds. The sky like a stop motion infection, fungal fruiting in each gray peak and dull blue shimmer. It is the danger of the disease analogy-- casting death sentences and murder ballads by the ease of simile. It was only the moody weather you were walking under. It was only the tangling of memory and this bruised and sullen feeling of a night falling too fast. Chimes on the porch, insects beating at the light.

The movie you were watching ends with every one that had a name dead. This to tell you that the story is over. This to tell you that it is only credits left to roll. The wind stirs the air, cools that waxen look on your face. You close your eyes, thinking of someone singing. You close your eyes, afraid to be so awake. You think of something you have to say, of someone who would understand. But the movie is over, and there is never anything to say. You might say something just the same. You might speak aloud, to all the dust and light and moon-sworn swarms. You may speak to the sleeping animals and the wandering wind, talking to yourself again.