It is sharp and it is cold. For all that torture there was nothing there to answer. The season is upon you, that narrowing of roads and not waves. The heat just rises to give up is seat. The heat was leaving from the moment it began. It meets you in that alley, that subjugation of all deliberate vice. It could be murder, for all tomorrow tells.
You know it like the weight of denied wishes, the kiss of sustained denial. You know it like the closing of a book, chapter and verse nearly instantly forgotten. That falsehood of only habit. These riches lost for ritual. You feel it like it was my spine that cracked, something glittering and distant. You feel it as if you could ever fall so far from your flesh. That bluff that can only be crafted from sheer belief.
I type it down, so tired, so sure of lapse. From the ache of narrow morning to that certainty of the cold and endless sea. I dawdle in rags and true folly, meat and bone all crisp with need for collapse. The distant flocks and the shoddy stars the lingering of my ink. I write it down, another knife made of ice. This sentiment so dull and alone.
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