The dusk comes, shining in the substance of your gaze. The sun sets, and in its passing leaves its essence in your flesh. It is the story stuck to the earth and sky. It is the myth that is mingled with the rush of blood. You in the subtleties of dust and memory. You in the shining only revealed with the arrival of the night.
The night it yawns, the night it stretches. The night settles into its drafts and strictures. Moments before moonrise, and there are scraps of constellations lingering just to the side of language. All these partial pictures, bereft of the weight of their telling. Something loosened near the knotted roots of gravity. Something caught between each instance and the depths of recollection.
It is in the way waking finds me. It is in the way sleep leaves me lost. The dreaming that seeps through the seams of each laden day, the enchanted and the remembered. You are the core of all that I regret, the soul of all the feeling in the flesh. Sunlight changed forever because it once touched your skin. The stars forever tangled in the mystery of your gaze.
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