spit

Every night the words unwind, a fondling of the moonlight, kissing the hem of dusk. All my life ascendant after sundown, living in the landscape of the night sky. The moon mouthing beatitudes and vivid kisses, these eternities in the space of saying, the way you spell it out. Lascivious dreams and rapt enchantments, beats and bars and the deep and far. Old songs and whispered wishes alight on your skin and lips, the places where we still touch. The way I asked only everything. The way I made you say it.

We are the savored dollops, we are the spit out gristle. We are scalped tickets and cherished relics, monuments to selfishness and sacrifice. The magic that starts with the mark on the map.  The repartee of baffling fireworks and nervous dogs, the clambering around the house, the report and the rattling glass. Here we are or there we go, whether passage between mountains or the stairway to the stars. The navigable constellations and unfettered tresses of your deft hand, letters left enfolded in dark and ghosts. The memories and the marks.

It’s not too far from prayers to curses. The daily bread and circuses, the arrow loosed towards heaven, the shed breath and spat epithet. Do we watch as the candles flicker, do we witness the light as it dies? This is where I abandon the traces, this is where you find me if you look. The hours ever counting down, the short order poems and place holder lines. The waste I always was to the nothing I’ve become. These shrugged off invocations, a habit scratching away, fleshless and enraged as the inevitable takes hold.