The motion activated light outside turns on in the early morning. A moth crashes into the window over and over and over. The light goes out again, and the moth goes with it, flitting up towards the moon.
Summer is over before it’s even started, over and gone. Outside the cold cracks my knuckles. Shadows creep along the edge of the yard but my flashlight can’t catch them.
The wind recites an elegy for me,
‘What is absurd is unavoidable, pay no mind to perspective. Parallel lines still touch at infinity. It doesn’t matter where you are, it’s all the same. The stars can’t help you any more than I can.’
The trees in the forest bend and shake, and a log submerged in the lake nearby doesn’t feel a thing.
‘It will all be over soon,’ the log thinks to itself, ‘Spring is here at last, here at last.’ It dreams, naively, about rising up from the water to grow roots and branches and leaves once again.
Past the plane of reflection I see the spectre of you.
Maybe there is no way back. I’m no ghost, but I’ve been turning into stone. The joints of my fingers harden, they grind and grate when they bend.
I know you aren’t really me, you’re too far away. Two sides are the same but the angle is off. Lost in translation, acute where I’m obtuse, air where I’m earth. It’s too bad we can’t seem to reach that line.
When I look up at the sky I see it spinning. The moon is one big eye, wide open and staring. I admire her but I can’t meet her gaze, I never could.
I know the water will rise, I know the flood is coming. I feel the ground shifting under my feet, turn your head and look to Venus. A crescent of bright light in the western sky.
Her eyes are more forgiving.