The moment drawn to these cold dumb fingers. This hour slowly bleeding into dust. The suspended breath long since cast off, another web, another shadow. Your silly trick and treats, the pause beyond the windows, the grit teeth of creeping feet. The story on the TV swimming in such pretty conceits. The real world small and aching for approval. Another clumsy line, another vague regret.
You think it is somehow printed on the inference. You think this sway is words and weight. That slow misspell always my undoing, the stuttered thunder of the absence of that gasp. Like the feel of keys is what makes the open. The written word as the warm close breath.
The thought is all that is left of the essence, not a treasure chest rattling but a thumb on soft wax. The searched for scars and the hearts hard preaching. The missing tooth always the lost god of tongues. Today is this much less again, tomorrow maybe never's name. A ghost of a bite, a clasp of shadow loosed in this triumphant regret.
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