tempo

Sooner or later the moment arises there in the tub, where the dull reveal of you meets the water at its lowest point. At least the water usually has enough decorum to remain close enough to silent so it counts, so the telling is up to you, you detail devil you. Is it the steam that rises from the steeping, the warble of the opened valve, that seal that is so like a kiss you taste it on your lips. Is it the memory crystallized from glistening slick in warmth light, fluid in the whispers that slip like a tongue between phrases. You shine without saying, where the words wait beneath the burbling all about.

I missed out on childhood sweethearts and campfire ghosts, culled early for absent self awareness, taught a place by elusive blossoms and blunt force. Another rage sick wallflower to drawl and droop on their summer stoop. Another magazine think piece past the time of the magazine, anti social low functioning old men are sad and because they behave in unpleasant and negative ways. Sing me another song of sorrow. Hang another sack of crap from the boughs of the blues. Reckless with furies and affections, I teeter away in the rigging. Most falls are inevitable given a little time.

There you are and there’s the magic, there you go and there’s the spell. It’s in the stretch of your neck, it’s in the muttering of your bones. The spell doesn’t quit easily, the spirit there forever voting flesh. Your presence credits the composition, needles always stitching, silk gleaming from the eaves. Your presence takes a lot with it when it goes. The wound does its work, the clock loses a few to the count. Knots holding knots, the grip of the materials even tighter than the grasp of your intentions. There you go making wings and waves.