perpetuity

They all wind up love letters, no matter what I say. Invocations and incantations, hint and rumors, the words weighted to touch you just so. It’s the gist you get from the ways we play our worthies. It’s the unknown and the way we take everything as puzzles, it’s the shapes you make between your eyes and mind. I guess I write at everybody, but I mostly write at you. Now you see em, now you don’t. It’s that hint of mystery, that turning in your tracks. So they’re all love letters with no particular place to go. 

The evening is on its feet, the body is closing in. More senescence, more pain, from the ache of the cat encumbered hip to the burn and sharp through gut and bone. The lonely hours spent beneath the declamations of the world of hurt, the mind ground to ashes and alarms. A medieval city ablaze in the middle of the night, a sense of fleeing by the light of the inferno, this set of disasters caving in all around. Appetite and isolation, the on and on portion of this far gone.

If you’re reading this chances are you don’t love me. If you’re reading this, the chances are you didn’t read this far. If you think I’m doing this for posterity, that fairly preposterous. Not much good in your name ringing out if you can’t leverage the come and get it. Not much good in being remembered after you’ve gone to earth. I only ever wrote it to make you look. It’s the way I always miss you more, the romance of the becoming moon through the fog, the star you never mentioned that I know is yours. Passing notes to the perpetuity, each one saying there was a woman I nearly knew.