Aforesaid by Circe

Keyed in on the “adios” angle with just enough devout paleolithic hallucination to keep you semi-honest.   Not always merely what was said but the shape of it.   A light wind moving the top of your head around inside the bones of moonlight.   The beach road humming like a wire.   Hydrostatic.   Whatever you say.   Motherfucker.

Thin sheets of silver occupy hairline shadow fractures the same way a tear leans up against your cheek.   Every dream worth it’s weight in crushed velvet.   Wet sand from here to forever.   Your brain seems to be on an extended vacation, a sea cruise, maybe a world tour, including every empty parking lot from Tierra del Fuego to Santa Cruz.   Factor in the long way back & you just might make it by suppertime.