In the frigid air where run-off was stopped cold in its tracks halfway down a drain, I stand out frozen still. Fogged breath to the air, moonlight tangling the ends of my hair, and beside me there is this vacant space there. But I can still feel the warmth from it’s passing ghost.
Tracks through seasons and years I’m retracing, fingers against woodgrain, against the window frame, against lips and holding all those hard-pressed words in.
Onions make me cry, but so does the winter cold tonight.
Goggles could have, if I had planned well, protected my overly sensitive eyes.
I’m tracing tire tracks in ice that was weeks ago frozen over, but I’m trying, trying, trying to find you out here under this clouded over florescent lit sky.
Inside, tomorrow, and yesterday there was/will be work to do. I’ve got a schedule we can try to follow if you think we’ll hold tack to the line. Probably fall out a few times. But hey, what the hell, it’s worth a try.
Nothing feels as complicated as picking where, exactly, to begin.
We’ve picked our way across the road and the forest floor and the needles, moss, and fallen hair collected there. In the autumn colors, we found some kind of respite from all that. Or perhaps it was in the sea salt air that felt, suspiciously, fresh. But the staleness had been rising from the inside and how could we know but to wait for it to grow?
I’m reaching arms stretched wide across the table of universes to reach another hand — but I come up empty, hollow, sad. I can’t explain it. I’m dragging feet. I’m a ribcage of once trusted protection all shattered now to bits.
You’ve got a crossbow and a good eye, decent aim, a bracered arm braced against the wind.
I’ve got a bright red target on my head and chest.
Your choice which one you choose to try and hit.
I bet I’ll fall even if you miss.
And where the track we’d traced upwards to the sun goes from there, oh well who knows?