I can't count all the evenings that ended with my asking. Eying the ceiling, pretending at heaven. I couldn't list all my selfless sins I engaged, looking to rejoin the world. Talking to someone I am so sure isn't there I can't help but hope I am wrong. Beneath a blue sky the longing only gets worse, sweating through this early shroud. Out in the open I start from the last place looked.
Staring at the patchwork of blue and green, the sour tongue of imminent refusal lingering like these constellations of sweat and dull choice. Smoke billows out from my indolence, evading the shade and curdling knots of ghosts and worry into the color field art that awaits. The grating voice of an irritable crow strikes the high mark, that place there where every choice is in error where the heat idles and the traffic coughs. I can only see so much however hard I look. I can only see so far before it is only my limits I witness.
There is no call for the rest of it. The hours dwindling, just lights in the sky. Just that bend of air that stalls before it plummets, rushing away without so much as a whim. Just that crease in the breath that lets you know someone is listening. Footsteps clambering down the distant street, voices touching the leaps and the bounds. The world that is and the one I want so close that every lie is precious. Every error beloved and exquisite besides the dull drums of truth. I can't begin again every time only to tell.
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