The music isn't so much sad as bereft you think, her voice a far away calamity, rich in woven flowers and industrial solvents. Her voice is the question poked of the monster in the dark. You sit and invent crossings of stars and cheap pornography. You sit in the dark and listen to the tug of her distance. Time and hope switch name cards, ruining the dinner arrangements and any chance of sleep. She is naked, singing only to you in the strange dark room.
It is only a kiss made of a mouthful of smoke, a kind of burning inwards. A grasp of the kindling long after the fire is gone. Her voice languid on the carpet, her voice breathless and flush. Her voice distilled and threaded with fine filaments of ice. There is a crystallography to the listening, a transition in the shaping of want and the world. So impossible, so compelling, so strangely inside the very nature of your limits. You so excruciatingly alone and removed from all sense. She sings, and all tastes like her burning.
The words are here in the ether. The words are there on the page. What strange persuasion light colludes towards, exchanging its truth for speech. Exchanging each collision with some trick of the text. Something written in awe before praiseful dark. Something written to dismiss the very truth of her touch. It is the cinders of romance once the sparks of romance devour. It is the earnest dismay of the after glow, that imagined share of the eternal. Her lips so close you taste them even as she is taken by the day. Her voice so clear she could only mean you.
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