Gloaming

The irony is that I continue to pull at the skin around my fingers in the hopes of finding a better, secondary skin that does not bleed or crack or cause pain. There was nothing wrong with that initial skin – except for where I once tore it and thereby exposed a flaw.

I think it’s best to not always try and find an explanation but rather accept the way things are; stillness is not a call to action – it’s a gift. At the end of our lives, we’ll look back and see that the loose ends are shorter than infinity, that they’re not the essential threads but dust. Infinity is only what happens when you locate all the disparate elements of self and bring these into focus.

My lids become weightless in the blue light and I don’t fall back asleep because this is unbranded time I’ve wandered into. In this wilderness, life could be anything at all. You and I, we could be the smallest birds sleeping high in the branches of a tree. If I were given the choice, I would put a stop to the tiresome, driving of our poor, emaciated hours. I would give them the day off and make the sound of your breathing my life's work instead.

I try to burn an explanation of love into the freckles on your back and sometimes you heave a sigh in your sleep. I wish on many things, on nothing really, that a miracle would take place: that you would wake and see straight through me, that you could read the lesson beneath the murmuring of fingers.