Every Winter Calling/Pyre of The World

Somewhere between tomorrow and

yesterday

I’m sitting at a bar, knowing with chill certainty

Though most trees haven't even thought to whisper of turning gold

There is blood in my mouth and ice in the air

The biting breeze is familiar as the ageing

bronze bells of the clock

Church towers peeling the hour into the dusk, still rung by ropes and bodies, as in

days of old

There is something ancient in it, that cannot be ignored

As every winter before it, deep and sharp and endless

A time to hide

A time to huddle

A time to hunger for sun

Weak though it will shine soon

Already the ache haunts my bones

Calling all things to stillness

———————————

It feels cold enough for breath to fog, but nothing comes of my exhale, except vague disappointment and a feral urge to kiss you.

I step inside the door and a pyre is lit in my rib cage, casting wild shadows behind my eyes as I scramble to remain human, and not some mad devotee to the tilt of your head, your smile.

I would go mute, if it meant you could laugh.

Thusly, I am troubled by you in the way only artists can be: troubled by beauty.

I feel I am being eaten alive at the flash of your hand, reaching, in my minds eye, for your drink, your jacket, my wrist, and I think of how the world lives there now, cradled sweetly in your palms, the curl of your fingertips.

I don’t think I could ever leave, so I don’t.