This last dispatch less painted gray than played so slowly all the colors are caught dreaming. This last season all breakers less the beach, the waves without any dry stone do dissolve, the weather without all this talk of rain. I closed the door and locked up all the gates. I slipped into that mood less like gloves and more like water threaded between cold fingers. These words written between pictures, these books still dozing between shelves.
I suppose I always knew your absence, something in the give of a brick or the sway of a tree. Those old scripts, movie musicals in their infancy, Astaire and Rogers sweet and light. I suppose it was often that blissful made up hint, that Easter egg renewal consecrated in the rhythm beneath all this blood. These moments, clinging and beckoning in the very effort of remembering. This longing both sacred and untrue.
Do we ever see each other past these habits, this just me and you? Do we ever know each other beyond the bonds of these easy habits and blunt refusals? Did we dance, or would we ever dance, the music so simple and strong right now. The way the effort eases, lingering on stepping light and sharp. The way the moment presses on and on. You knowing this persistence, the way I always wander towards your wake.
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