How many more stars must fall this night between us? How many more lights must be left all alone? The smell of smoke choking out the season, the chill in the air and the spill of eager chimneys, November clinging to the very air. Another clumsy street emptied of all but intent. The sky a scuffed and haggard gray amid all this useless space. Every time its like some sweet and saddened song unwinds, out of the range of the senses all want cries out its tempo. I reach for you in all these spells and letters. I reach for you with every machine and ghost.
This is the stillness of small shabby rooms lit artificial. The slip and brush of fingers playing at your seams. The moment flush with skin and grace. The stretch of reach the natural analogue to these literal notations, the heart quick within this fever of flex and want. The words left pressed like kisses folded into palms. The emptiness and the busy mind. These plaintive calls and these crossed symbols. All human need and ache left beneath the mat. This stirring of dust into water, of air into ash. The spirit spreading its wings with every breath.
Am I there when you read aloud this letter? Do you taste each mute and sharp of my present tense? There is that thrill left of incarnation, the rollick in the reek of this ruined meat, the limp and lilt of each staggered step alive. These kisses left for you to feel, drizzled amid sped breath. This wrap of love and limbs enfolded around all the broken and the lost, this taking of hope as a direction to aim this plunge, the why that out weighs all the righteous why nots. These words unbound from all their wounds and flags. The want that haunts all myth and matter, this love that may soar or shatter, this verse pressed slow and hard against your lips
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