In the land of gods and monsters we sat silent, trying to reach the stars. I can’t say now or for the future that I want you, but I know for certain that I wish I could have you mumble through Lana in time, softly breathing, calm in nothing, through a night. You become so many things I wish to covet. I can never own that room at the museum. I can never own all the blood red carpet or the promises made by the voices of gods or the light that not even spirits can drown. If I really could, I’d try to come close.
I could take you late, right before it closes. All those voices that love their world through a lens would be gone, their smell and smudges safe in bed.
The lights, as they are and always have been, will be low. The air is heavy with the sighs from all those crystalline structures, the breath of the Tetons. How can those slow working ghosts create so precariously these finite pieces?
Within the soul of this room is the vault. The carpet, walls, and cases are black. The entire room is an inert void into which all light is absorbed. All gold warmth is distilled into only a few rays of light that pour like honey onto each stone and in turn, each stone radiates the light of stars. The vibrato of Sinatra’s tenor is the single sound which anchors witnesses to the earth; otherwise we could all rise to the heavens to planes we only sleep in between.