Ground

A secret spark could have been the start of this, your slowed motion. Ripping through wires like lightning cracks and spins and spirals like wings belch smoke to meet the ground…which seems to be moving quicker than usual. Your voice like ice (and just as slick) slips past my ear and will certainly meet you all    the    way    down    here, where I’ll find a spot between the grass and wait, looking up to meet your face.

Where

There I am, spun up in spirals, reaching for them. Those that are they, piled up tight and broken so far away. With lazy crooks and looping arcs, hung on white and barely tipped (of fingers and muscled words), but i can see you across the sea…of thoughts that float between the sounds that bounce between my walls and bones, and so on and so on, clung to page and wars unwaged. At least not yet, anyway.