Little light pierces the scuffed up surface of the sky, all gray clouds and bands of gold. The light is diminished, yet to look up still can blind. What a day to be kept waiting for that certain secret truth. What a time to be alive when all the lies walk the streets without deference to the hour. The ragged roses all in bloom, the bees spilling down from the eaves.
It might be true that I dream of you, I never remember much too far from waking. Even with the grayest stretch of day, the sun can find your eyes. I can barely tell the weather that I’m tangled in, never mind the mumbling clutter of my mind. The world spills away no matter what I say. As for these threads of ache and beauty, I only miss the parts I know.
The sky still stabs and lingers, a wall at my back and my eyes to the west. The sun nests upon the grapefruit tree until I have to look away. The world hasn’t changed, or I just forgot it-- either way works fine. Peach-pale rose petals gather in the shabby grass that grows in clumps and clots. I look towards the limbs that reach up in casual mendincance, the sky puddle gray and fire bright. I look past the ends of the earth, lost in my garden though the world does not move without me.
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