migration

I miss the call of the crows in the sky before the day even knows it's dawn. I miss the silk of your dazzling hair against my lips as I kiss you in your dreams. This odd magic, this old one-two, the stretch of want across the wastes. The feather slowly spirals down, broad and black as it flitters and floats. It falls to your feet in dull physics or deft reverence. Either way I miss the moment as you grace it. Either way I can't linger with the sun still slow between us.

Some worlds are made of want and hew, some are made of wish and wander. The thick tangle of these casual incantations that coil in the depths of all this press and ache. The days only there to measure the migration of shadows. The sky only there to guide our eyes. You are missing from everywhere but my every sense. You are hidden from everything but my heart. The hours stick to the teeth of the world between us, sweet and smokey and slow to dissolve. My hands just waiting there on my wrists, my fingers lingering in the disarray of the empty air.

Another day of passing shadows, another night of lonely beds. The gap and stretch of distance crawling on and on. The aggravating map of the discouraging lay of the land rolls out between us, mountains and rivers and desolate roads. Flags and boundaries make their dull complaints as our lives plod on in the singular. Tense and elocution line these lines of lost causes and lust. These echoes of things that are said again and again, these teeming feelings boiling over every single cell. The winds rise and the trees wave from the top on down. They wave and the black wings seem further. They wave and every feather shines in apt motion, oblivious to the clinging of my dreams.