It wasn't the wind, swift and cold and indifferent to the dancing of dead leaves that spun and skipped down the sky. It wasn't the rain, which nudged and groped and kissed the skin of the long gone night. It wasn't the say or the season, the drift of conversation, the winter in the blood. I am far past the camouflage of reasons when it comes to these seeping blues, these crawling grays that spill out from eyes left open, from dreams that never end right. I am gone from the stories I once wore about arrival and antecedent. The mood had me, and there was little left of me to kibitz or display. The mood drove every moment, it colored in each unfortunate word.
Tonight isn't so different. I long for the rain, I watch the shadows grow until they are all that are left. I smoke on the porch, I talk on the phone, I lose my place and am careless with my tongue. I watch the traffic doppler by, the headlights long and drawn out or short and sharp. I am sad by habit, alone by the usual processes. A sweet song plays, and I smile a little, and tear up a little more. The mood is its own measure, it is paint and canvas whatever I think the subject might be.
My bones ache along the ley lines of wear and design. Maybe a symptom, maybe the season, maybe one song too many that calls and pulls inside and out. This world is too deep and too wide for me to figure, all these waters too close to distinguish a claim or cause. I wear the same skin though it is worn and damaged, the same shape though I can not find a use or a way. The day before is already in the dust, every prophecy already writhing with worms. The day to come already fashioned, and yet still a mystery to me. The mood both a sentence and a seance upon my soul.
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