Friday, August 7, 2015

bitter.

[We set our reckoning in fog, but don't sweat it,
We set roots back into the richer soils and sands, don't sweat it.
We weren't thinking about home, don't sweat it.
I didn't even think of you, don't sweat it.]

I'm not bitter, I swear.

There's a faint outline of something that begins in the distance,
And I've been watching you there with the storied company you keep.
I've been reading the motes of dust and studying the rising tendrils.
I hope you stare into your smoke signals and think of me,
Watching the blaze, watching the wood on the fire crack and split,
Watching it reduced to embers, embers reduced to ash,
Cold carbon that silences the neutral earth colors beneath like an
old lullaby,
consuming them in monochromatic melancholy.

But, The Smoke, it still rises,
 to me, still sighs at me for
The fire and You,
And I,
We're no good at pretending.

We've met in the middle before,
We've met in the shade,
When we stumbled,
When our lips met,

But will our sad
And furtive
Animal trysts ever be something less deceitful?

Let's just take this chance
 to take ourselves apart,
In this haze, In the signs of the smoke,
In this motley band of friends,
in this bed of nails we made.

Let's just take this chance,
to put ourselves together.