Light leaves and the leaves remain. Quivering with some unknowable force, or maybe just tricks of eyes and air. They feel like glass, you know, these wild eyes that capture prisms of vernal desire but refuse to hold even a singular secret thought. Glass can't be trusted, not even to veil or diffuse, it wavers and wells and pools with memories of salt and sand. Tracking across the clay veneer that is so idly sculpted, betraying always to the essence of being. To the still turmoil that haunts, to wanting and knowing, and always, always to that watery heart. They say we are made of water. I wonder if it's possible to be more...or less. Maybe we are air instead, all that space that holds the water in stasis, corralling it into form. Into shape and pattern. Into waves of thought, and particles of recollection. Maybe the body just remembers how it was and thus is. All that air holding me together, I like that thought, as if I could be buyout on the currents. It is the leaves that bring such thoughts. The transparency of them, the way they shift through my liquid eye, the sobbing shadows a lament that quietly steals within and leaves me breathless and without air.
