It is The ass end of November when the wind has left the night barren of leaves and branches try to mend the distance between stars.

Cigarette burns edge around the wrecked veneer. Your eyes hide in their scrutiny of the dusty curtains, what is out there beyond the pallid cast of the porch light. How great the distances bodies travel to feel the slightest gravity.

The scrape of the wind shapes the void we drift in. I remember wrapping my hands around you like an apron but the old transistor awakens with a sob of static. It had been forgotten after the trail of a stray broadcast had been lost. A glow that long since burned out. 

 

There is no point polishing the chrome that hasn't rusted off, the slant six still leans into the desert. There were too many mistakes to sift through. The easy lesson is to keep breathing. Even as the rooster tail rises behind dust caked taillights. Something like a comet that will never come back around.

There was too much dust; the accumulated fallout of what i didn't say. The way dreams flicker like fluorescent lights long before they die, the staccato death throes of a pulsar. Somehow we met in spite of the dust of exploded stars in our genome, the inborn weight of distance. These collisions never really altering the momentum of escape

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