the contrary

The wind jumps and sprints, cold breath against the warm shoulders of the dragging day. I wake slow, eyes skittering against the hard edges of dropped objects. The coffee steams unconvinced. Steel rims and ink dark skin, surface tension dancing with bled reflections and torrents of writhing vapor. The false mirror finds the sky meddling in my every dose. Each measure some small forfeit. Every day only evidence to the contrary.

The dogs are barking at each other around the corner, the remnants of some game gone astray, riot always ready to run. I cuddle my coffee in both hands, hunched over, blowing as if my breath will be the difference between just bitter or the burn. As if we were anything but appetite and ignition. The clock paints a picture, it sells its song. I write it down rather than sing along. When the day comes to settle, I will write it down as well.

The chill works its way through the soft ragged cloth, wandering wild over any shivering flesh. Shadows ghost and flirt against the wall. The world keeps slipping out from under the sun's steady affections, tumbling into all the stars and darkness. Spinning their way through this litany of days counted, worried like wooden beads meant to trace the course of your prayers. I type with cold fingers, words that will settle into the sediment, filling in each blank with the things left unsaid. The wind spills, and each word seems worn, spent through lifetimes of clarification and inference. These rocks and marker, meant to mean forever, left in piles and lines. Words chosen only to be swallowed by the wind.