I would still take your hand, with everything hidden now cluttering the table. I would still listen, through the dark tatters of your whispers, through the confessions so hurtful and true. The weather slides, the cloud circle. The song that plays on steams on just beneath all the skin and scars, and it is always alright to lean away. The song rolls and writhes, all those secrets so many carcinogens breathed in on accident, released boiling through your words. I suspend my hesitations, so many embers caught in mid-air, so many wings finally finding the will to roost. That is all the art I have.
The reverence mingles with the medium, the tense of heaven all angels and script. The reasoned oils another mirror, catching old stories in amber, casting creation in glistening skins and smoky robes. There are creases and veins of commerce, subtle revelations of that frenzied intersection, that ocean of culture and translated blood. The lamb so still upon a clumsy pedestal, the dove another pillar flickering in the firmament. The trickle of fountains, the trick rope image of paradise leavening the paint. Everything should be so tainted with the grace of age.
Here is where I will say you should slow towards the earth and season. Here is where I will leave these clumsy seductions of the glass always emptying when the thirst is so pronounced. That this would change the chill in the air, or brush a palm upon your cheek. That this would find you in that suspense of flesh and telling, reading with passion again and again. The lines so sparse and laden with the taste of rain and pavement that it would dissolve with the purpose on your breath. That silence seeming so painfully long and overdue.
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