There is a voice far below the sirens, the scratching of roots, the whispered shifting of stone and soil. There is a call stitched to every shadow, a beacon bound to every star. The night, the day, the flow and stagger. The fairy winged mosquitos. The night birds with their wings of ghosts. She speaks to skin and soul.
It isn't enough that my name eludes me? Isn't enough that every word has dried up and blown away? The moon presses down with every breath. With each breath the appetites increase. The last hurrah and the blue abandon. That first kiss wonder always hiding just over the rise. The way the eye always slides towards that bright horizon.
I am not so much lost as drawn more subtle. I am not so much burnt out as learning to abide these flames. The hush is heavy without the levity of distant voices. This season but the tide run low. You may search or pry, you might hunt and stalk. Your sights might find me greased with moonlight and a pause in the wind. The rule is never simple get or get got. Law must always find the water level. That same call behind every fickle shine. If you see me, I can see you.
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