[On the windward side, on the lee side,
The wind and snow will eat my viscera,
Will hide and bury my bones, but you
You lead the way, and I'll follow -
I'd never intended on going home.
Take my word for it, I'm not worth it.]
I take walks sometimes past willows and sweetgums, past looming oaks and middling pecans, under the prophetical language of the leaves, the branches and limbs sway and drop the greens of common speech to my feet. I'm not prone to sensitivity, but the light, the twilight beams of moons and stars and faraway feelings leave me feeling so suddenly feeble.
It's funny, the way the wordly things express themselves, the way the sidewalk cracks in the heat, under pressure, the way the limbs and boughs bend and twist toward the light. It's strange, the times the inanimate things arrange themselves into series, into historical compositions.
Take me away from the trees and the oceans,
Take me away from common sense and history,
Or am I already gone?
You stroll sometimes past the houses of boys and girls, covered in bruises and the scent of the old plague,
masked beneath the saccharine aroma of honeysuckle vines, reaching to grasp fences and trees like infant hands. You're not one to gush, but the sights, the simple silent sound of the night leave you feeling so fiercely distant.
And isn't it odd, the way our hands intertwine, the way my face nests neatly in your neck? We've never known the way, we say, to indulge our senses to the stolen flowers inside my vest, next to your dress, the floral scents joining us, only for a moment, before decay, before curling in anger.
And we'll curse at the sky, we'll pray to the night to steady our hands,
To release us, quivering, from the chains,
How heavy our heads,
How heavy this hand,
We're crowned in anger.
Take me away from the stars and the dark,
Take me away from nostalgia and hope,
or am I already gone?