It is the odd momentum, music walking down a hallway, a shadow lingering in the door. It is the slow changing, one state of matter leaving for the next. We slip from from one sensation to the next, touched by the air, riddled with grief. Breath grays the silvered mirror, sweat beads upon the graceless skin. It flows, and we follow, the stillness all ache and release.
There is a path that winds out into the darkened garden. There is a map made of remembered stars. All that warm flesh scored with flecks and scars, caught forever in that light, holding that glow. The words spill out onto the sharp the sharp stones, they spill on the hard floor, they rend their clothes and scrape their knees. We gather them in twos and threes. Some we hang from the line to dry. Some we place in our mouths just to feel their press upon our tongues. We speak soft and solemn, as if in prayer or plot.
The house must speak to itself awhile before it goes to sleep. A creaking of floor boards, a clanking of pipes. A lost moth in stubborn contest against a lamp. So the music may pause while it wanders, leaning against a window or crouching on the floor. The stray shadow may mingle and conspire. The beaded sweat soaks the sheets, dreams creeping close. There is that river that washes over, that debt that comes due. We follow these footsteps unbidden until the hands of silence find us, asleep and alone.
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