unbidden

The words all weigh the same, pressed against the windows of the heart. Always looking in through the steam of being, looking for an inkling of the mystery, looking for some silvered shore. The stand on tip-toe, they crawl on their bellies, the kneel and they strut. They gather a glimmer, a slender tether that binds them to that torrid blood. They leave as smug strangers, empty from imagining being fulfilled.

She is so pretty on paper, so eager to fold and cling. Line by line, she echoes some slim perfection, the lyric and the carnal in delectable collision. She seems to stretch and shine, seems to purr and boil. It must always be everything, huddled at a distance, lingering in purest flight. It always goes from vulgar to charmed, from kiss to crumple to that blissful rictus that always leaves alone. This work of idle hours and restless hands. This sense that somehow ache will provide.

This comes up, with the blend of dashboard constellations and spattered glass. This comes up, because every fresh thing is always the same. There are limits to the instrument and a world bent on proving that true. There are hiccoughs in the mix, some startled pause between millennia, some insatiable appetite that can only long for more. The revelation owed to an improvement in the machinery, a favor felt in flesh and fuel. So still, so lovely. After ten thousand times, the same prayer must change. After ten thousand times, the words learn their names.