mailbox

Enough with the stolen moments, the tattered breath, the curtain call. Enough with the rising minor chords, the accordion’s creaks, the old drag and draw. Lest we peal out expletives and set the company to scatter. Lest the moment lived to avoid lets  loose its seething legions. The matter is always swapping spaces. The direction is always dissolution.

There’s pieces that aren’t in the inventory. There’s parts that won’t be coming back. That’s the nature of the ticket. That’s the story, as far as it goes. The entropy is systemic. Eventually every end is frayed.

This is the two step of the walking wounded. The tradecraft of our fading fortunes, the ephemeral mark of the falling star. Some old soul, turning in slowed circles. A flickering light in the early hours. The mailbox spilling over.