It seems as if autumn finds its balance, blue sky and the lilt of dying leaf. The trees sway, sweeping the clouds, clinging to the indifference of the wind. The skittering litter of the season dancing in the empty street. Traffic passes, rendering the detritus into dust. Hissing tires and weary asphalt. The slow incitement ever gazing upward. Every day finding a new low.
The weather obscures the words. The feel of the chill, the condensings of breath finding flesh, the distinction of color and the puzzle of perspective. Every sense an exclamation, every line stolen from another map of the world. I speak in the immensities that language allows, excesses of will and of time, the deep ache, the enduring flame. It sings of all the shapes passion grants a wanting tongue. The songs unfurl again and again, your skin mingling with this absent aim.
So it sails across farther waters, the secret oblivion that life has endowed our needs. So it crosses frozen waste and lush canopy, so it burrows through earth and stone. I say forever, speaking in antithesis. I say love, speaking from the same page you read aloud before. There are no such symptoms, no evidence found at large in the restless world. Everything dust and everything burning. This shine I can only hope for, crying out loud to you.
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