Those cold guns, her heart fraught with wonder. That painted on threat, the fact of abandon. The voice just below the water, before the light. The shadows pool just before seeing. Everything stretch and cause.
Could have been the moment wanders, that idle collide of fresh chrome and suspense, that distance only bridged by waiting. The possible every shred of evidence, the dowse and the drowning. Such an unlikely precipice. So lovely the fall.
I wake at this insistence. Something wants this world more. The blinds of hallucination fervid in the phrasing. Lost clothes and secret plans. The words will soon repeat themselves. The prayer soon learns itself. Thirst so hard to swallow.
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