purity

I would be that difference left when breath escapes the trance of breathing, that lapse between speech and gasp, that point before all smaller calamities ensue. I would be the broken vow and the spoiled oath, the confessions of iron left to the rain. That pause of salt, all glamour and radiance, all metal and ash. Lingering there, neither wholly solid or that blush of liquid, pressed against your lips. Passion's kiss or the finger of silence, I would be there before our myth begins.

That painting all pigment and quick brush stroke, somehow better than the real thing by that slim virtue of being not it. That picture, so lovely, and cropped just so. All art is a certain indifference to the facts as they are found. Art is the eye on the crime scene, carefully choosing every proof of crime. To turn against becomes the truest worship, apostasy every evidence of the case betrayed. It is every reason to cling to the shadows. It is the thing that makes you love the locks at night.

Write your name in blood sewn ink. Tell your story in your chosen pound of flesh. Name your poison, and buy a round for the house while you're troubling that out. I have read all the mistakes into the margins, learned all the space staying negative is the reasons for the words. In between every line, after every sentence, I will whittle dash and point. I am cleansed of every motive, settled of every bet. Forever untouched by blade or blame, I remain that note of purity. That open moment when the lie began