Thoughtlessness—
         suspends space—
too much space—between fringe and
fringe; moonlight
pools through windowsill—
         a mirror of its shadowed self.

The name of our love
is Untitled. She is young,

still, and dances. She wants
to be more, wants to

Project

but her tides are always
out tides. She is

the only moon
shut-in, boxed-up, hemmed;

her light-shadow kisses
against your midnight door.

It is unlatched
so two shades of blue shine
      unseen, darkening.
There is no pale impression from
the ceiling light, just indigo,
      just midnight,
ink on a page unread.
You can’t make out the dust
      spiraling
anymore. You can’t remember
the last notes played here,
      anymore.

I'm sailing static across
new surfaces—
soft waves, soft gusts behind me.

It is giving in.
It is an osmotic tickle on my
skin, a fervor
that flows like water:
high to low.

I'm feeling mute heartbeats
at the passage, feeling it must be
larger than this.

They are strings of letters unset
from their horizons.
Swollen ink smearing
in air;
their little stalks, serene, suffocated,
like pockets of dust, attended
but in passing. Pieces
of you—agile, remiss—
spark notes in shattered
melody. The dying refrain
flutters;
only the echoes are staining. She
is like a tumbling highway,
still tumbling through full-stop.

Blue amorphous tones
waxing darkly.
Her lunge, a vaporous sigh.

And down poured the Pacific:
   callous, immutable, wild.

Remember the headrest—muted
and pasted to your arms.
How it felt to smother in voicelessness.

Remember hair stains, decade-weary leather.
Remember the revolutions around ourselves.

Remember as inky sky purples from sunlight;
Confront the oppressive curls of memory.