The long line of coincidence lays in ashes, embers lingering like the stars. The mystery of a heart that empties is something always comes rushing in. The fold in the letter, the crease on the curb. That emblem of something missed laying strewn across the lawn. I scratch and scrape another new life. I idle in the shower, the river all around.
There is a touch that always ends with loving. There is a song that always ends inside out. That notion of a needle sharp enough to pierce a voice. That idea of an arrow, falling towards inevitable harm. The nights last so much longer, the burden leaving fingerprints across the deluge only dreamt. The spell that always goes back to the start.
I lean hard into this drowning picture, feeling that want and that ruin. I lean into a willed burned past, as if this motion could ever uncover this breath. You are that gentle violence of light, filling my eyes with sharpened sand. You are that perfect murder of a flower held tight though it is cut. That weight always just leaving my fingers. That scent always purposeful and burning. The empty lot lit sudden, all beauty is fire.
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