It’s burning and it’s brittle, this strange and little thing of ours; Sometimes I see the wings of the sun, then the gaping mouths of the stars, And can I help it, if I can’t stop dreaming of you? I wish you would lay down beside me, in the weightless cradle of the night, and speak only to accent the silence that shivers between wrong and right, But the moment you arrive, you have long begun to depart; The earth hides his face while the moon bares her heart. I don’t want to hurt you. I never mean to cause
We deal in fragments because we have little else. Some are beautiful, shining, concentrated; some are ever more striking than the imperfect whole. But precious fragments, delicate and unique, are fractured from her being every day. Broken off and discarded without her consent. We try to catch them desperately but they fall much faster than we can see, and land farther than we can reach.
Things are progressing, I know. Despite my trying to breathe in every detail of the moment in some childlike hope of preserving it–the shop-bought fragrance that releases in occasional puffs from beneath the hostess trolley by the door, the warm rumblings of the cat’s belly against my thigh, the silenced tennis match on the TV, the way the pale light falls in uneven stripes through the old, broken blinds—things are progressing (regressing?) and there is nothing we can do about it. We are simultaneously slipping through the wide sinkhole of the future, and falling back through the broken pieces of