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
In the softest shades of the night He spoke to me, Of chasing lions from the mountains To the level of the sea, Of curious, frozen fingers Upon aged sycamore trees, Of the feelings he has, But cannot give freely. It has long seemed a wonder to me, How words sputter forth Clouded mysteries, How these fragments of passion Pierce our vitality, Syllables shelled and cracked By the mouths of gluttony. It does little good to wish, I know, as the river runs to the sea In its own good time; but for me, Darkness swims beneath This lush valley
The fields are flooded, waterlogged since the weekend. Still white tulip blossoms sit like children in the trees beside the dirt road, heads back, mouths stretched wide, waiting for rain.
The spaces have long been you. They are still you, but not entirely. There are pinholes of light where once there was only darkness. There is space around the sadness. The thoughts are there, and I cannot resist them, but in letting them be, in letting them churn and wrestle, watching with kind interest as they do, I can practise non-reaction. I don’t have to run to you. I don’t have to beg, or cry, or wish. Though I do wish, still. There was a fog that morning we trudged in silence to the wooden room in the forest. The