All at once I walked inside your shadow, wore the blinding attentions, and the wary phrase. That best press of the sun, that flash burn of being at last found out. Moving through this cast of absence, the names split upon every skin. Drawing down all that wrath and glory, the seething passion, the drift of innocence. Kissed and occluded, flush and vacant to the bone. Lost and listed, and gleaned from the wobble of stars.
Even the lighting is leaving, the whole encampment dwindling into gape and night. The creak of tree limb, the rustling of wind and leaf. I write it like this loss is novel, like the day is a new pursuit. With the words all crumpled and tangled. With the words all swollen and broke. You as an admonition, as the tattoo of some favorite phrase burned indelible in the flesh. You as an admiration for the wreck of my desire. Something scribbled inside the cover, the dog-eared novel left unfinished on some bus.
I slow as I descend, hand reaching for that unseen rail. I grasp and stretch, anticipating limits, avoiding leaps. There is an ache between my shoulders, a blade at the base of my spine. There is a story told in stairways. There is a story told, nose pressed against the glass in dumb appetite. That want is the constant, lapse only the brief and fevered dreams lost upon the train. I feel your beauty bleeding out some window, staring into another endless night. I feel my absence whenever you come near.
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