Left to the gravid moon and the pent up prayers, the hungers pace the pews. The wished for wanton and the wished on star. All the little repetitions, all the strolls around the block, the call and response, the mother may I s left splayed out on the floor. All the real roads that make the rounds between the words and the put on show. The way your intention always leaves a mark.
Bared fleshed and battered knees, the crowded bouts of reignition, memory makes a list you always want to check. Close quarter shoulders and dark cold rooms. Sunlight and dust and the taste of passion pressed so tight. The old days get older and the good times just Bible gas, smote right off the boat for busting covenants, back when in the pretty pleases. The streets rolled up and the porch light on, the moon goes out of its way to make it worse.
It’s always about the one more round. It’s always about the going gone. The moon shining bright through the trees, the ache for the scent of her nape, the sharp of her jaw, the impassioned gasp. The ache drawn as taught as a bow, the arrow tense and perilous, this want a rope around the throat of the night. To steer through these restless stars wheeling through the seasons, with memory always held hard against the wall. To feel the distance as the speed of a spark, not a penny to the name, not the teeth left to grin.
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