The light slowly escapes, sticking to the skins of pale things, saying good-bye to the world. We chill to the dry exaltations of our skins, all existence cauterized by the cold, the profound slowing of the seasons. Winter is coming, crawling down the branches. Winter is coming, trickling from the stars.
I hang my head, idly watching the pavement. The litter of leaf, the edges swept with moss. I smoke absently, wondering at everything I think I miss. This close landscape, this huddle of shadows and smoke, this sense of you in every reckless silhouette. That all waiting would play out, and you would be there trailing wishes. That in this brittle age I would still embrace what was beautiful because it was true.
You flicker in the periphery, a light clinging to the curbside, a shadow cut in half. Winter is the wizard's season, the magic edge that feels honed by ice and death. The dry consistence of this flesh, feeling the wind and the blush of stars sweep you. A notion that holds some tide of sickness at bay. Waiting for the daylight, watching a red star.
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