The stars are all lost, or maybe there is still too much light to see. The color of the horizon only another long shadow. The color of my eyes no color at all. There is to seeing too much wait left. There is in the sky nothing much at all. From the crack on the sidewalk to the streak of fading exhaust, time weighed out in separate measures. Everything there to build a map or write a book. Everything to count out all the bright ideas and blown kisses still in the wings.
I would say something, but the words only spill. I would split infinitely and define every article there, but you have already turned it off. The dusk fumbles in the door while I try to settle on a tact, or make out a trail. All the margins full of my muddled notation. Every line parted wide enough to let the meaning fall away. This breath, that name, the silly game that was never played well enough for even the narrowest sort of contention. Untuned guitars and bug bites, all the streets choked with near misses and could have beens. The grizzled remainders of a bad beat, the sound of something best left unsaid. The day is only different in the lighting.
I gather all the shards and cinders, sweeping up the tailings of your spell. Greasy ash and dusty feathers, a scattered circle and an enchantment scratched into skin. So it is you shed your story. So it is the candles are all snuffed. I spread my guesses out before I folded. It isn't that I thought there would be winning. I just try to lose at a less startling rate. The night arrives, and the mirrors are dirty. This flesh so wrought with endings. This heart so dull with want.
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