The road runs dark, like the long prelude to thunder, like that sinking feeling fast on the rise. The road runs down, branch and bramble clambering out the ditch. A stippled welt of blackberry thorn beads darkly upon bare flesh. The clinging of the scenery, the puzzling of the path. A drawn breath, a crackle like bone.
The heart meanwhile chokes upon its poems. It attempts the stairs as its legs give way, the peril ever pressing, love constantly hanging on its hinges or ridden out on a rail. All its stiff necked gasping never made it a contender. You know because you know, however hard the heart has saying it. You know because you’re here and now instead of there and then.
The meat of the memory pawed like a fetish in a fervor. The dark ought of once was always an alcove just out of sight. Backlit by spent expectations and hinted dreams, the kisses still cling. The once upon a time we play at ever after. The contender there and gone. The buzzing neon vacancy always on.
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