the light through the window and pours past the wooden floorboards, flowing over the walls and stain-glass and here I am again, hands clasped tightly, and the open air and breathing deep as though the taste is somehow different here though I know it not to be true and the hush which I am afraid to break;
to break is to bend and I, unyielding, cannot fall here – what else is there – a failure of faith in the faithless and beseeching someone out there to listen. And the stone that falls the other way and I am witnessing another day and it perches upon the watch and it must be Tuesday again.