It is at that moment, when time catches up to memory, when the song comes undone at each syllable. It is right then when the hour slips from the glass, where the clock spills its arms into the night. There are tremblings and there are kisses. There are wishes that were spent on stars. Every spark and sputter, the clutter of another evening alone.
I don't wait until the bridge to start its burning. I don't divvy my day into such fine a slice in thousands. I take the measure, I swallow my dose of dust and screams. There won't be one and so can never find another. There were so many, and now that they are gone, just a single flock. I would write it all down, had you skin enough on your back. I would write it all down, were you near for an instant.
I thought I had settled on the dish of no tomorrows, that bowl of longing snuffed, of ashes cast in smoke. I thought I was left without any other means for an end. Writing down wishes in the cold crisp sky. Reading all these fortunes from this shy smattering of stars. That notion cast from the skimming of breath as steam, trailing on behind me in the night. That magic thought left that there could still be surprise.
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