sore to form

The light is less explicit, the wattage whispers and stammers, the brilliance of the filament and the dancing of the dust. The resonant bandwidth of warm skin and rejected flesh, the story of rawboned ghosts and worn ligaments. The form pooling shadows, moving through the stations. The ache from the frame, the pretty to the picture. Rising with the burned down breath, the burden born in clumsy motion, every thought an exasperation. 

So goes the burning of the ember, so goes the carrying of the torch. The illicit thrills of tongue tip wishes, the light and heat implicit in this grip. The heap moves from shambles to shibboleths, the aptitude to self delude the staple of this faith. The crane shot and the slow dissolve, the turn into the silhouette. At the height of the well honed hunger, every feeling left a fall.

The gifts still gather in my squalor, my love still lingers where the squander runs free. The smoke that curls towards blue biased heaven, the words I would have said or have you say, the room entombed by the night. It should be oaths and lips and letters. It should be the tangle of collided want and time. I follow the phrases, I follow the sentence. I wake to the fading of what could be. Shoulders slumped, feet rotting on the floor.