service

There are moments where I want to sound it out, where at once I think these words should be together. That’s all that’s left of all it is. A feeling fast upon me, or a sadness for the way they say it. The reason remains, the rhyme’s there too, but if it came with other words, it wouldn’t be it. That’s the story that keeps the time. The story that never needs known.

Once a touch, twice a skill, now some clinging vestigial from back in the long before. The voice from the edge of perception. The sudden grip of the spell. All the tells shown, dwindled down to wait and want. This stumbling call and response, a fortune told in spent fortunes, the strange epigenetics of will and word. The preternatural sameness speaking through your spine.

Even now the wave is breaking. The now always leaving or losing its name, until almost every where becomes a when. This thin seam where we are together passing. The swell shared for a few short breaths, then you are left just you and yours. This is all I am. The way the words land, and leave you out to sea.