Your hand lingers on my arm sends my atoms scattering like birds. With you, I am only space between feathers that fall, alighting on your sweaters, sent in spirals by your stride. What's left? Space defined by emptiness, the nature of ghosts, and ash; outlines traced by fingertips. I am the shore that crumbles as rivers flow around hills; mist climbing the sky to clouds and falling. There is light outside your house, falling from poles in circles to puddles, back to the sky. The drone of metal coils, a cricket stops its chirping as a feather collapses. This flock of birds is singing, despite the moon. There are fake lights everywhere, turning the sky pale orange. The birds chirp outside your room to the artificial sun. The lines. The pavement. The still, still branches of urban trees where wind is blocked by cement. The plastic bag creeps slowly, glass bottles sway tenderly lulling the tin cans to sleep. You are inside of these things, I am outside of your house after forced and rushed good-byes. If you would have walked with me you might have seen Christ himself with a thumb up, saying: "Yes." -e. _______________________________________________ Five7Five mailing list [EMAIL PROTECTED] http://www.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/five7five
