Lately I imagine those first near whispers of light as they brush so very nearly a kiss across your waking skin. The line after line that push through the blinds, awaiting just the right words as they ladder down flesh and floor. Rows of teeth or pickets in a fence. I treat the dawn like the run-off from your wakeful naked stretching the world alive. So I move from dream to day, and from day to wishing once again.
The stars are strung up high tonight, and the moon so far from home. The ache of autumn reaching, the bare limbs cracking the firmament with silhouettes so heavy they nearly breaking the air above. To hang the dusk upon you and watch the shadows repeat you shape. To bathe you in darkness and moonlight, all eyes wide open and hands I can't keep still. The bitter distance heaven always holds you to.
It does no good to dream. It serves no end to live so enamored of a bitter past. I am the pain boiled down from these bones, the press upon press of all this flesh and age. You cast a long shadow, and I gather at either side of the day. Your shadow falls from that faraway shine, your essence burning a hole through every night.
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