It is witching hour.
The shadows have taken a life of their own, moving unconcerned with me, or any of my beloved laws of logic.
The sounds are dulled, faint ripples
That I may think, until it is decided I may think no more.
It is purely mundane —
The intricacies of this world escape me, as all I can conjure are images:
//
The night sky, unrestrained.
Warmth, but not so much as to suffocate.
Who and I, breathing in harmony, so silent as to hear each other’s tick and really believe they are in time.
We are not asleep, much less awake
Our only consciousness is one another —
We are two absurd existences, the only true meanings —
Nihil traded blissfully for Quo.
Galaxies collide for us, mere fireworks, and underneath the light
Our faces, as codes undecipherable to any that should glimpse
What is to us the whole universe.
Who is warm, and I am warm.
Reciprocal, the shadows perform,
//
the shadows — indifferent but for one.
I have overstayed my welcome, and it is time I am gone.
My eyes are gently eased shut
With a weight as compelling as beautiful,
As the images flee as always to join
Millions upon millions of optatives and conditionals and subjunctives.
And I awake, with nothing more than a brief scribble.