I play the sentences aloud. Maestro's words, my voice. Skilled hands becoming warm breath, lilting into existence and floating forevermore as diamonds.
When I am played, Jessica breaks – bending towards the earth like the arms of a colossal pine under white weight. It is the third way. The song I've never heard. My Lord's embrace.
Before bed, toast with honey and a cup of cooling tea. Ritual as a love affair. A love affair without disciples.
The words beget me. I turn and dip my shoulders in between as to avoid collision. But I've already been undone. There is nothing to gain here. Nothing to lose. My tea and eyelids slip down.
It is not hunger; I am full. The abundance of my pliancy has everything to do with what I can give (she says as she eats every word).
Somehow in the moving process the new neighbors have left their outside garage lights on day and night for the last ten days. The light shines into my face through the bedroom window and ripples an already delicate sleepscape. Until we meet, there will be this light between us. That is one way to filter what is.
Yet the sun arrived today, Maestro, and every piney branch danced. The remnant of fall's Tibetan flags waved in the light and I was blessed accordingly. Slipping or sleeping. Praying or persevering. I can only ever fall into your tempo.