I have crisped under hot skies and I’m ready for the cooling. August isn’t even half done, but my summer is on the downswing. I have started to notice that the daylight is less: the sun is finally exhaling after weeks of holding its breath. I am deeply aware of the twilight tonight. I am deep in the twilight.
A young Old Man reminded me (inadvertently and impersonally) that a song that must be written if you can hear it, and must be shared if it’s your heart. So I picked up my guitar again and waited for my throat to catch. I am deeply aware of the twilight tonight. And all that’s missing here are the fireflies and the firelight and maybe your face. I am deep in the twilight.
Sleep is walking back to me, washing under me, and tickling my feet. I’m ankles deep in heartbeats that fell from my memories. And we wandered open and wide to the sound of a lazy brown river meandering over the ground. I am deeply aware of the twilight tonight. And your kisses are here in the candlelight. I am deep in the twilight.
Perhaps we are among the last. To listen to the click of an analog clock and stare at the possibility within a blank page. Pen hovering and heavy with unformed phrases. We are searching for the story. The heart, the beat, the string of what runs along our bones. Amassing graphemes and morphemes in the crook above the thumb. They’ll tumble down the pen and fall into the curves and scrawls of repeating ink. We will shape the secrets into discernible code where we will disappear amid the snap of synapses behind our eyes.
We sat on the balcony, my words and I, tossing back ice-cold cider and summertime snacks. Sweating bottles and sweaty temples, the sticky sun crisping our stomachs and toes. We chuckled into the silence of crows and sparrows and magpies and bees. Biding and buying time. Stocking up against the autumn staring into the corners of our eyes. We knew, my words and I, where the story would turn. Where the climax would shudder into rapid resolution. We sat anyway. Stayed put. Smiled and held our hands against the concrete.
in these weeks of upheaval
becomes lost and frightened
and breaks lines where
calendar bars should exist
believes it should always know
where it was meant to settle
between my Tuesday-Thursday shoulders