Grant that this trouble was nothing new. Grant that these were the things written first on walls by firelight. Heaven watches and remains near to blind, all across the salted vastness. The moon went somewhere else to look for you. Dispatch all your luckless messengers. Write this in your own hand.
It is in this sleepless notation I seem to see you most. Counting hours instead of counting sheep. Counting on fire without seeing any light. Each syllable a measure of a hopeless, thoughtless note, some breath let loose to soon. You awake with revelation. You follow the last moments closely. The spell is so seamless, so harsh. Everything is explained with perfect order.
The magic goes away when you wait for it. It can only live with itself in a silly kind of surprise. You swallow the color, the cold water awakening the mysteries of thirst. You drown in the blue of the sky in dreams, that beautiful face lost to any legacy. That is where the dream might land you. That is where the moon will follow. The spell check nearly over, the letter nearly spoiled. The idea that you heard it all in a song.
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