it is dawn and you are afraid the sun will burn your city down.
these days, your interventions are cyclic: you roam the house unperturbed, but when the postman raps at your window i can see it in your face, in your eyes, in the twitch of your lips as your gaze turns wild and gaping. there's a hole where the gossips' column should've been in the morning paper and i tell you it's not my fault your dog is so fond of bitingbacks and bitingtext and biting into everything but the fear that overwhelms you.
because it's true: you are frightened, you are frightened, you are so so so afraid. and it is not the theatrical overcast of the clouds to blame, or the looming shadows of people you never knew that fall across your face, because the city is quiet and placid, the sky's dreamy eyes like cold, swirling milk.
who could ever blame the sky for anything? i ask you.
(you get a bucket, a mop and wipe the windows down with tar. just in case, you say. just in case. just in case.)
last night, there was a charade downtown, in that palace made from boxes and soda cans; there was shingle where my toes were supposed to be and gasoline inside my lungs and the fire-escapes were all clogged with matchsticks. i called the place my townhome, but now it is a mausoleum for things that burn in quiet redemption.
(do you remember, the first time we went there? i swore i saw sparks, but they weren't in the wiring. they were between you and me.)
and last night there was a charade and i was the circus and--you don't know this, you've never known, you'll never know--the ringmaster knew my name. when they spoke it was with your voice and i could've sworn it was you, except you were wrapped in stardust quilts and surrounded by comet walls, and i knew that if i passed by your house i'd see it dripping in black paint.
you always did stir trapezes with your lips, even when we were younger. you'd skydive from Mars without a net if i'd told you i'd catch you before you fell.
for a long time, i have been the place where shadows meet people's feet, the place where things part and bind together. i am shades of grey. i am shades of miscellenia and microtropic wonderlands filled with mystery. you say you have lived in my shadow for too long, but the truth is that all my life i've been trying to outline yours in doves' wings. i soak your shadow in ink and wring it out until it looks like feathery black gold. it gets dark quickly, maybe because it's winter, i think, or maybe because i feel your shadow falling over me all the time. there is nothing at the end of the road when i open my eyes, though, and i have begun to think you have always been the dark: flighty, sly, and with no express purpose in mind but that of drowning me.
who could fear the darkness after a twilight that is so beautifully insane?
please tell me you are beautiful. please tell me you're not afraid.
but it is dawn and you dread the moment you will raise your hands to your lips, palms cupped, swallowing sundrops and dustlight. and you flutter your eyelids shut, drawing the blinds down, carving moths to your veins so they never learn how to fly.
the truth is that you are afraid because you know how much this moment means to me.