One hope sleeps across the city. Dangerous ground calling me. I stay back, masked in the shadows.
I gather moons to shed light on Him. Pathos gathers inside enough to swallow. He never asks. I cannot speak anyway.
“Collect my spirit in seven different sections,” to myself, I think. The moon never moves out of rhythm, yet here we are, water, ebbing against nature.
I’m still here. Same place, same time. I carry jazz in my hands, wishing for danger to come back. Make me afraid.
He moves like molasses. He speaks in tongue and I pray for resurrection. The Earth has stopped moving. Air does not exist. I know nothing.
The elements cannot change him. He stands acrylic. Centered for discerning eyes and, oh, the places.
Life comes to Life.
The city is restless. I hear Him breathe for eternity. Azurite sparkling in deserted winter. Ice breaks the noise. We slip into existence without heart, without home, without a chance at spring.
Cherry blossoms will come for those eyes to greet them. And He may be there, running His fingers through love, waiting for a chance to paint His canvas wild,
while I rely on mercury to settle deep into my eyes. It’s too cold to cry.