Here fit the pieces of longing unresolved. The livid skin, the brush work of fingertips, the light that yawns and gapes. The puzzle scattered across the calendar and map, mystery hidden behind the simple act of want. The electric fan, the rhyme scheme of the dust. The hopes that must be abandoned when we act in faith alone.
There is a swathe of starlight to be remembered while the sky burns and the nights grow lonesome and long. There is a bright moon left to wash away the constellations, figures and myths too far away to calculate the cost of their absence. There is the steady breathing of darling children, too loved and safe to know the world will never want them. Such sweetness remaining unresolved, the tear salt, the trembling flesh.
This night will know no thunder, all smoke bereft of an abiding flame. This letter will know no comfort, read as it is so far from context. All of the pieces always fitting, relying entirely of when you find them. Time unfurls its reasons, a slow kiss good-bye that could only promise deeper passions. A restless night so close that it is all that touches, dark and strong and always shaped like certainty. Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat until you are sure.
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