readjusting shadows until my vision echoes.
he's here. now. beside me soft; soft speaking.
ours is an old language; dead and quiet;
swollen around its silence. soft. softening books
forgotten in a humid cellar. vigilantly tended,
this story, yet the words have grown together;
sprouting, pliant, entangled. sweet rot
back to soil. i cannot speak, save hear his words
rise from my throat. my world sifted impossibly through his.
a flavor bound to itself;
flat and closed across taste's need for nuance.

immunity to my own reverence - haste made now
and so forgotten; just one - one singular
gesture cast forth off a light boned hand; hollow
as a flute. a trill, adrift, across pure and imperfect
yearning - open - a sentimental ideal. i don't believe
in fists. i'd not want such power of kings; their finger's
closed around so many broken things. a wave. a way away.
it meant so much.

indebted and wearied beneath the weight
of forgiveness. just one more invitation; welcome.
palms up and open. is it then, just a legend
the creatures of the night; is it the third bite
from which there's no return? or so the story goes.
coming to need his hunger while my own, twines closed.