Make enough mistakes, a few are bound to be beautiful. Nature takes its time, but we are wound on different strings. The mirror tells it all, the race is on, fate is fleeting and there is nothing won without losing. So we cut corners, we burn bridges. We sever all limits and sting the only thing that might save us just to know the nature of the sinking frog and the cold muddy depths. She takes the cake, leaving us all barely breathing. She is the cat's meow, once we shred the pajamas. After all these shabby errors, you'd think we'd hold still long enough to see.
The guitars are scratching at the glass, the dogs just bark and bark. The tv shines just for pretty pictures and a little electric light. The itchy skin leaves and the hair stands on end, and every thought is imbued with a slightly blue cloud. Those slippery sadnesses that wind the clocks and count the minutes. The press against each pleasure, the knowing what is known, and the being who I am. How long the kiss, how perfect the promise, how deep the sighs--. The sweetest relief is carried at the cost of this grand transubstantiation, the measure of the self as these sets of leavings, as the remainders left of love. The music dances, the pictures burn. This flesh only knows the fade.
Watch the stars as they flutter, watch the moon as it weighs graven wishes in the night. The sun slips in while we are weary, steals a glimpse or caress. The night settles down beside us with every intended forever allowed, dropping every pretense upon the floor. Slivers in the finger, blisters on the hands. We shed our work in a slow fury, we wear our skin like excuses. The music will not save this breath. The fire will not contain this witness. Even when I arrive I am leaving. I miss her before I even show. This intimate dust, this evident remnant.
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