I look through your flesh to cast your shadow, this gaze that lingers like a burn. Medicine is only found in miles. The strange scintillations. The seeing of stars and hearing of birds. I scratch at these wan imaginings, their emptiness a kind of cheap invincible. The loss of the facts a small resorting to truth. The scheme of things suddenly warm and clear.
There is precious little time, and all of it is yours, from the daylight to the dreaming. A spark here, a nod there, the way actions are distributed so evenly across the clock. Something in the way water seems to still to beads just touching you. Something in the way you always seem most yourself as a reason to linger. I can never just see you, so much to be made of all this seeing through.
The sky is tethered to the trees, the cats believe in nothing even close to laws. It feels like sheer witness, the way these words come piling. I would say a rain, or a storm, but there is no climate to be made. Just one day and the next, and the people and the things. Something meant to be worthy of the heights and the depths. Something caught in the wind might as well learn to fly.
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