The days don’t do much to withstand scrutiny. A few spent words, a handful of receipts. The lyric repeated again and again as your heart raced your hands. The rapt horizon and the goodbye glow. Squinting west through sunshine eyes, thinking of your skin. Your shoulders in a certain light. The riot riding on through. Stories told to stories, down to the world in silhouettes. The wear and tear your truth.
Give me days when the sunset feels golden. Give me mornings when waking’s not a wound. This struggle seems too simple to those who who have pieces figured out. Another heart and soul set on steady. The comfort of living lightly in the aftermath. The devotion of living ferociously for what you share. Forms and stories and products of the dreams that endure. Birthday wishes without the courtesies of candles blown out.
Now comes the blithe horizon, aglow with that so long light. Now comes the winds without a witness, the curve to the wobbling sphere, the drag of stars and atmosphere while bright burns out. The wishful instrument caught on the shift of your hip and the nape of your neck. The cold gray brushed against my flesh, the dusk weighed bones, and my heart a hive of sighs. Stare as I want, all I can do is witness what is already gone.
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