Account of an Early Fall Night

The weather sympathizes with the chillness of my lies. My heart is either glass or ice, depending on the time you find me going for a cigarette (ice is for the night). The moon is haloed like a saint – pearlescent, tired, and bright. The clouds look like an Escher work, but instead of turning fish to birds they tesselate from night to dusk so geometrically, I swear it must’ve been drawn with a compass first until every last curved line blurred into a fabric of the sky, a tattered quilt that lonely I will never see the need for. In the woods right to my left, the ground is full of creatures – shivering and foraging, so dark that their slight features are invisible to my eyes and I look back at the clouds. They are made not of dust and water but panicking and doubt – hanging ominously close, leaving a space for satellites. What do you do when you aren’t sure that what you’re doing’s right?


~ by perfectionatrix on September 17, 2011.

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