reypulque

Hope leaves like heat leaves, diffuse, spectral, ever rising into the secret cant of sky and stars. Waiting only another aimless religion, imposed like a twelve-step deity, an articulated resignation to a lack of other options, another way of embracing deep and abiding flaw. Moving by rote from too hot to too cold, no baby bear equilibrium visible from this point in the spectrum, my eyes take on the naivety of streetlights weeping onto a wet and quiet road. Eyes slowly becoming the color of their scant substitutions, eyes the color of wet pavement, of black ice right before the slide into the unlit chasm below. Pointless phrasing, faint affirmations, notions as true a paper valentines. As true and pulp and ink and directions found for too much feeling.