smoke and errors

There is a rigor to your absence, a certainty to this abdication of phrase and trend. The rain falls, soft and suggestive. The rain falls, one wish at least come true. The roads lose their tension and the traffic its mind. The mist settles on the windshield, and I think of your fingers drifting away. The wiper blades scratch out that scatter vocabulary, and I hear your spell unwind in the song the radio exudes. The gray of an early dusk, this litany of space before and between.

The names elude, the words fail. This bristling dusting of water, the wilderness of open sky deluged with this dull autumnal. The weighing of brittle leave and sinewy limb. That precious lift, those tip toe moments all grace and reach. What I know is marked by the flow of water, the gliding of these free syllables over every surface. Where I am is following the lines stitched into these seamless leavings. Following the road because direction often trumps intent.

There are no gifts, no clamor towards critique or adulation. The day runs out, the moon glides, sickle sharp and shining between cloudscapes. This road, that rain, the moon above all fit this measure. Scribbled promises and cartoon hearts. A romance made of smoke and errors, of dusk and mosquitoes and the touch of a light that glows just so. My leg is asleep and my hands are empty. There is no remedy that you do not eclipse. There is no moment that you do not entwine. The calendar grows like a vine, towing the brickwork, carrying the sun.