here comes the night

Here it comes with the jangles and the shadows. Here it comes with its old Leonard Cohen records and its pins and drums. Weary letters and fields of flowers. Blue kisses by the dashboard glow. The places we wandered, the places we parked. Memories and souvenirs and all those if only opiates we keep tucked in our tired and our alone. Unbidden and seething with wishes and appetites sudden upon the flesh, here comes the night. 

You wake less one arm save a few pins and needles. The arm you slept dead jerking and flopping as the feeling won’t return. Another one for the hymnal of stories left unsaid. The way the details start to slip away the more silence you carry. Then it’s the unsaid and the impossible to say. The build along the barrier, the press of dreaming, the palmed apocalypses, the pocketed gods. The creature and the entity, the blurry embodied sets of songs and urges, the meat and burn of this blasphemed magic awake to the reach signal. You jump and tumble, the momentum between intentions a kind of randomizer, them bones rolled in the box top where the rules are written. You become again.

As it is, I speak to no one. I scribble out fragments, I wander into the wilderness spilling crumbs. The music on shuffle, the rituals on repeat. I’ve been turning with the wheel of sky, I’ve been circling the dirt. The words stroll on, through the bleak and blue. The mattress on the box, the ceiling uninterested in the terms and conditions, chaos creeping in. There are clouds, there are stars, there’s the drowsy gaze of the walk away moon shining up the scene. There are letters that start where they ended, the dusk rushed windows and the song in the air. There are letters I never start and just hit send. All the rest are poems and prayers and process. The bottle tossed overboard, the sea all but infinite.