What a bright burn it had, incendiary ignition to propel the stars within reach and the past behind like scrolls of bad wisdom. The light danced and played like promises of great hope, hearts speaking loudly in the quiet spaces between then and tomorrow, but what’s next was always the gutterball toss down the alley; a limbless reach for the rungs of a ladder to happiness. The pins reset, the dice cast, a game of worship spilled skill like milk and tears spotted the lane, the table and the sky where the sorrow divided, prisms of carved light like a deitific etchings drawing thin beauty from the failure of day. The storm raged nearby, but if there was a way to lasso the sun it was attempted, until it too departed. Like dreams. Like need. And soon night drew the untended fire to smoke, the thin whisps of words uttered and sighs intermingling in twilight, unheard, without echo. Somewhere there’s a wonder if it ever happened at all, but then there’s the charred scar of the land behind and a dented sky punched by ardor; all of it the wrong kind of grip on the remedy of now. Were there a way to stow the sun, trap that heat and burn bright forever, eschewing the plays at color on blank walls and in monochrome slumber. But the rules persevere and the lovers adapt, grinning like clowns for an audience returning their tickets to a show that never started. Endings are always the toughest and made most tragic when they have no beginning.
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