#1
Hey I heard you calling from over there. I was just staring at where the blues diminish the grays and the mountains are different shades of peas. No no I thought I heard your voice but maybe I was mistaken. There are so many different bird whistles, from the Cardinals to the Blue Jays, to the Ducks and the Snow Fouls. It was to early in the morning to actually see you. Only the noises could be distinguished from the monotony of darkness. Did you not say something from behind that oak tree between the two bushes that produced those thorns. The one’s that have dug into my skin from before. The kind that can get stuck into your skin and dig, crawl in between places you didn’t know you had, extra storage, the fleshiest pieces of skin. Can’t you just come back out and tell me your question. Was it how old am I? Or how bold was the Mayans? I could only pick up the syllables between the whirring of the leaves, the peddling of the creek, the wind just under the horizon. Only the murmur could come in contact with my ears under my knitted hat, and I was a little uncomfortable at the time too. But then when I say that orange, blood clotted circle appear, the wisps started to scatter, you know the whispers, and the dew driven gnats passed over the horizon, slowly lifting above our atmosphere, passing into unilateral time, never to be, only, seen again.
***
I saw the words on the other side of the stars. People usually say stars twinkle but their light remains constant, as an object, and if they are transforming slowly, fading and awning, that means they are only passively entering death. Stars have options before they die like words have many ways to be interpreted. Each second I stare, the wind passed over the clouds, usually pearl white, now hardly distinguishable between the midnight purple of space and the blackness of the clouds. It’s as if the words on a page were being wrapped underneath the spacing between lines, were missed between the message of a sentence, the massage of senses. It never truly made any remarks, no remembrance of my past, no insight on the future. Just letters illuminated under my own two flashlight eyes. Letters I have never seen before, only touched with my hands, only smelt being spoken from chapped lips, from a parched mouth and a salivating tooth. I thought I saw it again, even when I stare at the same spot, just north of Orion’s belt, after every blink, looking until the dirty particles project into my thin veiled plasma obstructing my lenses.
